Wrought of Iron and Silk
by FreedomOftheSeas
Summary: The despair of witnessing the death of her mother turned thirteen year old Cecilia into a troubled girl. As ward in care of her uncle – a tailor in Stuttgart, Germany – she receives a visit from society's most disreputable gentleman, Loki of Asgard, who convinces the lost, lonely, raven-haired girl to pledge her loyalty to him. The prospect of a new life was impossible to resist.
1. Chapter 1 - The Tailor's Apprentice

**A/N**: Just wanted to say thank you to everyone who left me very encouraging messages about my first Avenger's one-shot _The Trickster's Gambit._ Also, a big thank you goes out to my amazing beta-fairy, ShahbanouScheherazade.

I'm really enjoying all this wonderful inspiration I'm getting from writing for this fandom!

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim to The Avengers franchise. However, the original plots are owned by me.

Enjoy!

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_**Wrought of Iron and Silk**_

_**Chapter 1 - The Tailor's Apprentice**_

At first, he didn't want a dress suit, so he settled on a tuxedo instead. If he had to have one, it would be lined with silk, slim cut and buttoned high. The tailor had never heard of such a tuxedo, but he remarked, in German, that no matter what he intended to do with such an ensemble, it couldn't be worn for dancing. _Good_, then it wouldn't be worn for dancing, he didn't want to dance anyway.

Interestingly enough, his time on Earth had restored a healthy color to his skin, and little remained in his appearance that reflected the terrible ordeal he had suffered on Asgard.

He stole a glance at the tailor's ridiculous bird-themed clock. Almost six. Another hour until the opening. He had spent the better part of two hours being measured and fit into a suit of clothes that was typical of what he had seen on the street. The tailor helped him dress, making sure that the garment fit his slender figure properly, quietly assuring him that the style was modern and spry.

Loki nodded slowly, smoothing his hair before he delicately straightened his dark, charcoal gray tie in the mirror. He gazed at himself triumphantly. The figure before him reflected that of a dashing Midgardian gentleman. Well-groomed, fashioned in an expensive guise, a black silk handkerchief perfectly peeking from his left breast pocket, he certainly enjoyed being surrounded by mortal luxury. Though there was nothing of the "gentleman" about him, in spite of his desire to carry himself as one. Truly, a transformation.

A pair of fine boots was also on the god's list for his tailor. "Please, accept a glass of sweet wine while I fetch the shoemaker," the gray-haired man insisted, offering him a high stool to rest on. The man's clear blue eyes sparkled with unwavering loyalty. "Oh, and, mind the Little Bit. It took me all morning to coax the devil in here," he said, but not too unkindly as he hurried himself out the door to a reputable shoemaker down the road.

Of course, he acquiesced, out of courtesy though he was in no mood for drink.

With his back leaning against the wall facing the street, he inspected a fair portion of the parlor at his leisure. Its ceiling was hung with half-finished men's suits, the seams marked with white thread and chalk. Three low stools were on the floor next to a high stool next to a cutting table where the tailor would work on sleeves. Above this station, religious paraphernalia was fashioned onto the wall - a daily reminder to abide by false idols. He scoffed._ Mortals_. So protective of their beliefs, so obsessed with their faith, and so arrogant in their efforts to maintain the status quo, that they couldn't see what was staring them right in their faces. Good and evil must always coexist.

Beside the shrine, sitting in a rocking chair with her feet resting on the crossbar of the straight chair in front of her was a young girl - the _Little Bit_. The bastiste scarf that framed her face was black; also black was her thick hair, done up in two braids, crowning her small head; black the color of the fine iridescent wool slippers that imprisoned her tiny feet with a raised arch and a curving instep.

The little halfling was dressed in mourning, outwardly and in her heart as well, he judged from the profound sorrow revealed both by her face and demeanor. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She'd been crying. From the garments visible on the floor, on the back of the straight chair and in her lap, it was plain to see that she was sewing. A task from which she did not raise her eyes, save for a few moments when her master, similarly occupied, had risen to his feet to open the front door to usher him in.

"Ah, there's a pretty raven." He was right. Though certainly not well-bred, she appeared charming, with her large, shadowy eyes, her dark hair and slight figure. "What is it that vexes you so?" Her misery proved more captivating than her charms and youthful grace.

The young girl betrayed a slight movement of surprise upon seeing him. At her silent invitation, he sat down on the edge of an armchair beside her, laying the scepter flat upon his lap. She dared not raise her gaze. The girl was shaken, but trying not to show it. It appeared that he agitated the heart of the unfortunate creature, the victim of the most impassioned and undisciplined emotions, though it was not his intention. Children were so weak and so easy to manipulate when they were weary.

A long pause followed, until Loki recollected that, according to Midgardian etiquette, she was waiting for him to speak first. "Let us see what you've got there, provided the lady is not too shy."

Work pants and a muslin shirt, sturdy denim trousers and two sets of military uniforms, both dark blue with brass buttons and braided trim. She smoothed her hand over the heavy serge jacket, and for a second, he sensed some faint connection between her and the man who'd worn it.

The feeling was gone just as rapidly as it came.

Surprised by how intent his voice was, the young girl dropped to her knees in front of a small trunk by the counter, prying the latches up and lifting the heavy lid to reveal its delicate contents – lilac- scented jumbles of old letters, doilies, scraps of half-finished tatting, hand embroidered handkerchiefs and bureau scarves. Each piece rested, in its turn, in her hands and his.

"This one..." The young girl regained her confidence as she presented him with a gold and emerald green silk scarf, wrought carefully of her own hand. "Suits you well."

The scarf stretched longer than he, and while it certainly was_ not_ the most extravagant thing he owned, he showed her appreciation for all the thought and hours he knew she had meticulously devoted to it, rather than its value. Carefully, he touched the tiny, precise stitches and wondered how long she had labored with her needle and colorful threads to create such exquisite samples of an almost lost art. He repressed a smile, reminded that she was a woman – a servant – and it was her duty.

He draped the silk around his neck, letting the end drop inside his coat. "This is quite stunning," he half-whispered, and since she was a mortal slave, she bowed her head respectfully, accepting the praise. If anything, he admired her talent for one so young, the precision and patience such lovely needlework required. "Do you know who I am?" A valuable starting gambit.

The girl shook her head, no.

"Behold, child, you look upon your King: Loki of Asgard." He stared at her, smiling triumphantly. "And I anticipate I will be in great need of someone with your talent."

The girl collected her thoughts before replying. "Forgive me, but here there is no king and there are no subjects."

Beneath the sorrow, she appeared to be a little ahead of herself, a little too perceptive and sophisticated. Loki stood up and drew high. He was on the verge of giving her a fierce response, but the young girl turned and looked to him, and when her dark eyes met his, he saw himself. Dark and tiny, in fine detail, the lines about his mouth, everything there, as if her eyes were two miraculous bits of black onyx that might capture and hold him intact.

His pain, loneliness and misery were there. How could that be? Why would she feel that no one liked her either? Such terrible pain, almost worse than his. Why?

Their pains merged, one loneliness, one fear, one despair over worthlessness. She must see it.

It didn't matter. "Even so, there is chaos and disorder. Take heed, Little Raven, there is only one eternal truth," he explained calmly, pausing as she regarded him with childlike curiosity. Her face was soft, pensive and held a constant light. "All men are not created equal and you are not free. The laws of this realm that are not of vengeance bred, but bred of love, are nothing but fine poetry."

The Little Raven nodded and fell silent. Then she replied, "Is there no such thing – freedom?"

Slowly sitting beside her, Loki laced his fingers together, becoming easy with her once more, admiring her poise and grasp. "It is imperfect," he clarified.

"Will you be a good King?" She kept her eyes steady and square on his.

He merely raised a sardonic brow, amusement on his face, imagining the sprite wanting him to chase away dragons with a pointed spear. Finally, he nodded. "Just like one of those you would read in fairy stories," he lied. He didn't know why he chose to lie, they were united by agony. He had so few people to confide in to begin with, but lying was just so easy.

The Little Raven's face flickered, casting a strange look of disappointment, as if she had hoped for another response from him, something less… inadequate. "It's rare for a man to keep his word."

_Curious. _She must see herself in his eyes, sharing the surprise of discovering their own reflections. True, men were so simple of mind, and so much dominated by their immediate needs, that a deceitful man would always find plenty who are ready to be deceived. A king would never lack for legitimate excuses to explain away his breaches of faith.

"Ooh, is it?" He pressed his advantage. "I always keep my word."

"Always?"

There it was. The suspicion confirmed. He quailed under the brightness of her eyes; he felt that there was no escape for him from this inquisition. "Almost always, when I give it. I don't give it often. I keep my word and I play by the rules of the game in motion."

The girl made no comment on the statement. Her smooth face was composed, mouth still, and eyes seemed disinterested as they focused on his scepter.

The tailor's absurd bird clock struck half-past six, startling them both with hideous songs. "It's half-past hummingbird," the girl stated solemnly. "Will you be leaving now?" They both stared at the clock before facing each other again.

"Not yet." He patted her head, growing quite fond of his little companion. "Let us play a game to pass the time, shall we?" he asked, his smile at its most charming.

With great humility, she whispered, "I don't know if I can." Her gaze was so weary, so sad. Eyes too old for such a young face. "I-..."

He held a finger to his lips, quelling her protests, beckoning for her attention. "You cannot refuse the invitation of your King. Now, I don't want you to guess," he insisted, holding his hands out in tight fists before her. "I'm going to influence you to pick the correct hand. One of them will _feel _wrong. You won't know why. So which will it be? Left, or right, or none at all?"

The girl managed a weak smile and watched his hands. She could not be sure, so she closed her eyes and reached out, clamping her hand on the man's grip. His skin felt cold and smooth like a polished horn.

When she looked, he had uncurled both of his palms, his right held a small, golden thimble, while in his left rested a spool of green thread. "Proclaim your loyalty to me, and I will give you all that you desire. Will you do me – your good King – this great service?"

The young girl's doll-like face brightened. "If the master tailor will allow it."

His laugh came from deep down within his gut. As he laughed, he looked at her face. He hadn't a care for what her master _allowed_. "Ah, Little Raven. Do not concern yourself with trifles. Tonight your master shall kneel before me, obey me, worship me, and chant my name. Whatever is his, shall be _mine_."


	2. Chapter 2 - A New World

******Disclaimer****: **I have no claim to The Avengers franchise. However, the original plots are owned by me.

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_**Chapter 2 - A New World**_

The Bifröst's swirling whirlwind sounded just as mournful as Cecilia felt as she pulled away from its entrance. Her eyes were watering with pain, but she blinked the tears away and took a moment to overcome a sudden wave of vertigo. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs. Feeling a rippling tingle travel from her stomach down to her knees, she sank to the floor beside the valise at her feet.

She listened for the vortex, but heard nothing besides her breath, her heart, and her eye's blinking. Slowly, the dizziness went away, and she regained her strength, adjusting her eyes to capture the golden world that shimmered brilliantly before her. Brushing ineffectively at the soot on her serviceable black dress, Cecilia shoved her hands in her jacket pockets, idly gripping her spool of emerald green thread and golden thimble. Her face wore the pale glow it took on at any call on her energy: a kind of warrior brightness that made her small head, with its strong chin and close bound hair, like that of an amazon in a frieze.

"Welcome to Asgard, young one." Through his voice, Cecilia could feel the potency of his power, but she was not afraid. She lifted her gaze, regarding the tall, dark figure before her. He stood about seven feet tall. The thick shoulder caps of rigid leather body-armor protruded wide above his arms, though they did little to hide the powerful physique they encased. On his forearms, the man wore leather vambraces, so thick that they could have stopped the blow of an axe. Beneath his helmet were two fiery eyes.

"Do not be afraid. It has been a long road for you, I know. I am Heimdall, the Gatekeeper." His face was expressionless – quite expressionless. And yet, there was something so far at the back of his eyes that she had seen once before…

"Afraid, I am not, Heimdall," she claimed. Pulling a hand from her pocket, she tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, and then cupped her hand over the back of her neck, turning her head in an attempt to ease the tension knotted there.

"Cecilia-"

Her name jolted her and her eyes went to him involuntarily. A dim, twilight glow surrounded him. With blank hard eyes, he stared at her, and spoke, "I saw an inn fire." Heimdall beamed his all-knowing eyes into her. "Thirty-four dead."

She remembered it clearly; somewhere deep inside her, fear opened up. The memories ignited with a noise, a sound, a feeling, an emotion - it was screaming. Whether she could hear it or feel it, she wasn't sure, but it was there. Screaming souls, lost souls. The sound was quiet, like the muffled sound of people screaming underwater, bitter cries etched into her heart like acid. Souls of the dead - lost, confused, scared. Souls of the dying; they were the worst. Tortured and alone, their pain carving long scores in the fabric of their being.

Amongst the many, Cecilia looked close and could see a soul burning with a color she could not describe, but she knew it to be her own. Lost in the ether, blinded, and calling her name like ravens calling into the night.

_I started it._

Calm. _Be calm_. She cast the thoughts out of her mind.

"Heed me, mortal. I am sworn to protect this realm and I have promised our king that I shall protect you," Heimdall said somberly. "We are always faced with great trials and sufferings. Great power dwells in patience – keep it at hand, and you will never be a threat to this world."

Cecilia nodded, understanding, and lifted her gaze to find the Gatekeeper's eyes on her. They held a censure that made her wonder if he could read her thoughts as well. "I'll do my best," she responded, bowing her head in acquiescence.

Tightening her grip on her valise, she walked solemnly past him to the new world – her new _home_ – beyond the gate, but soon her youthful exuberance took over and she began running ahead.

Violet clouds flickered as they rolled across blackened skies, occasionally broken by crimson streaks of energy and sickly green strokes of lightning. Beneath her feet, lines were clearly revealed, tracing a never ending spiral - a rainbow in reverse, transformed into straight currents of light, and the colors twisted and turned in the flow, dazzling her eyes. The hues broke with every cautious step, sending brilliant coral lights flashing and spinning like glass waves before her, as if the stars had suddenly plunged from the heavens to guide her forward.

Except for her thumb and forefinger idly turning the smooth, round locket on her necklace, Cecilia stood motionless as she studied the sprawling city. The surrounding rugged slopes seemed to tenderly cradle the buildings that nearly filled the length and breadth of the gently rolling valley. Steeply pitched golden roofs pricked the land within the ribbon of wall, with the higher peaks of the palace off to the northern end, but not so much as a wisp of smoke rose from the hundreds of homes into the clear air.

The scent of lilacs blew away the stench of German dust that lingered on her clothing. Her pulse beat hard and fast in her neck. Her new life was about to begin. She had been summoned for a private audience with the king after two years with no word, and had no idea what to expect. Ever since the fire, life had spiraled down in a disheartening whirlpool of pain. While she hoped to find a new path, the sting of death left her expecting only more heartache. Still, she could not refuse.

A man holding the reins of two fine horses went past, and he stared too boldly for her taste, so she directed her gaze to her dusty black boots. She was still paralyzed, confused by this new place. What if her new employer had sent no one to meet her? She didn't know how to get to her destination.

"Miss?"

She jerked her gaze back up to see a man dressed in armor of deep maroon. Locks of reddish hair dipped from his helmet, while his bushy red beard looked dusty in places, sticky with sweat in others.

"Is that all you have?" His massive chest expanded like the breast of a pouter pigeon. "Are you the Raven?"

"Yes, yes, I am," she replied shyly. "Are you from the palace?"

Picking up her valise, he said, "I am Volstagg." He gave a vague nod toward the black palfrey at his side. "This way, little one."

Cecilia laughed. "I've never ridden a horse in my life."

He placed a hand on her arm for reassurance. "Ahah! Greenhorn, you have not ridden on a horse before, so you will already have a story to tell this evening." He was laughing - laughing so heartily that the whole mountain echoed the sound.

Sighing, she endeavored to jam her foot into the stirrup, and started to swing herself onto the horse's back, but before she could lift her other foot off the ground, Volstagg's hands wrapped around her waist and lifted her on to the saddle. He put the reins in her hands. "There," he said with a smile.

"Thank you," she replied stiffly as she settled herself in the saddle seat. She focused her gaze on the long, black mane lying thickly on the left side of the horse's neck.

"You don't need to use a heavy hand to get her to respond," he added.

"Don't worry," she said in a gentler tone, "I'll get the feel of her."

She pressed her heels into the horse's sides and Volstagg stepped back as she slowly rode ahead of him. With the ease of a man familiar with his saddle, he allowed Cecilia and her horse to find their way down the Rainbow Bridge before hoisting himself into his saddle. His leg protested and he frowned at the reminder. Settling into the worn leather, his boots gripped the stirrups as he nudged the stallion into motion.

For a time, they saw no movement past the Bifröst. The arrow-straight road leading to the main gate, the smaller meandering roads that branched off to the end at the lesser gates, and those which bypassed the outer walls altogether to lead north – all were deserted. They rode together over hunched hills and through damp hollows. Her saddle leather creaked and the horse snorted once, her ears flicking as she answered a nicker from Volstagg's horse.

As they came through the woods, Volstagg sang to her palfrey and described the shape of his world for her. He was old, but so young in spirit, always in good humor, always fidgeting, eating and he would tell stories, many and long. She had quite a few to tell as well, taking her time to exaggerate and expand her favorites: _The Golden Goose _and _Rumble-Stilts-Ken_, and soon they were laughing together.

"_Round about, round about. Lo and behold! Reel away, reel away. Straw into gold_!" she sang merrily.

"Where do these stories come from?" he asked between bites of his apple. "Let's have it!"

"I don't know… books?" She offered a shrug. "Some from my imagination."

"Hmm," he huffed sarcastically, raising a brow. "That's not even a place. Apple?" He extended the half eaten fruit to her, which she refused politely.

"What do you mean? Of course it's a _place_!" she protested with a smile.

"Oh is it, now?" he retorted skeptically, throwing the apple core over his shoulder.

"Yes." She paused, and then her eyes narrowed. "It's a place I built for myself."

He didn't reply, just nodded. She would accept that for now. Perhaps he thought her strange.

The sloping mountain meadow before her lay buried beneath a white winter blanket. Her horse's massive hoofs no longer produced the constant crackling of bracken with each step; rather they sank into a layer of snow and pine needles with a muffled thudding. A light breeze liberated the burden of snow from a sagging branch of a nearby pine, freeing a sparkling cloud to curl away. The same breeze ruffled the black wolf fur of the thick mantle snugged against her cheek, but she hardly noticed.

Their course began to descend, leading them through a lightly forested glen. It was nearing dusk as they approached the palace gates. A pall of smoke hung over the western quarter of the city, and there was still no one on the streets. Volstagg guided his powerful stallion a little way up the treeless slope before bringing the great animal to a halt.

Cecilia, looking up from her position, could see the enormous silhouette of the palace's western wall black against the veil of starred heavens.

"This is where I leave you, Greenhorn." Volstagg gave her a wink as he helped her off her horse. "Around the western wall there is a black, iron door. Be safe, child. We shall meet again."

"Do you have to leave so soon?" Cecilia stood, absorbing the huge edifice that would have been more at home in one of her stories. Seeing it there before her seemed wrong somehow. Maybe it was the high, golden peaks that leered down at her, or perhaps it was the darkness that made it look stern and unwelcoming. "It's scary out there. I don't know if I want to go to that door. It's a whole new life."

"Ay, your life, your life." Volstagg considered with a furrow in his brow. "One cannot go on retreating forever! No more fairy stories, child. No more gliding through safe waters. No more rejoicing in the pleasant sunshine. No more sight of the earth or those you love. This is your story. Take hold of it."

A sudden gleam of happiness lit up her sad eyes.

"Tomorrow!" he said with a hollow voice. "Be it so - I will not fail - trust me, I will not!" Volstagg's smile lingered as he turned away. She was alone then, waving disdainfully at the man riding away from her into the darkness.

A chill shuddered down her spine as she picked up her valise. It would surely the palace would be more attractive in the daylight. "Thank you." she managed, gathering her courage. Against her better judgement, Cecilia followed a cobblestone path around the west side of the palace.

Light spilled into a rose garden from large airy windows along the side of the grand structure. Cecilia stopped and gaped at an opulent scene of women in shimmering silk dresses mingling with men dressed in metal and leather under a spectacular candlelit chandelier. Houseboys and maids carrying trays offered food and drink. She eyed their clothing curiously. Except for the houseboy's woolen shirt, all of their clothes were made of leather - a sharp contrast to the clothes most people wore in Germany. Silks and satins seemed to be commonplace amongst the women, and even the maids wore the finest cloth that she'd ever seen.

She reined in her impulse to run back to Volstagg and ask to be returned to her world. This Asgardian life was far outside her experience, and she'd never fit in. Clenching her jaw, she forced herself forward toward the iron door until she felt a firm hand on her shoulder.

Cecilia turned to find a slim girl, about her age staring at her. "Where do you think you're going? I expected you an hour ago. We need you." The girl's hazel eyes sparkled with life above flushed cheeks. She reached out and yanked the valise from Cecilia's hands. "We're shorthanded. Your dress will do for now."

The girl pulled Cecilia through a hall that opened into a large kitchen where the cooking odors grew stronger. The aromas of beef and fish vied with that of cinnamon and apples. Food covered a scarred wooden table and several servants bustled around the room.

A tiny woman dressed in black silks orchestrated the chaos. The red hair under her cap was coiled in a bun tight enough to give her a headache. Her brown eyes assessed Cecilia and she nodded. "You can take around the cider."

Cecilia's chest felt tight, and she wished she'd hidden out in the rose garden. "But there must be a mistake. I am to meet the King-"

"There will be a time to get acquainted later. _After_ the party." The tiny woman's brow lifted in challenge as if daring Cecilia to object.

"I'll do my best."

"That's all I ask." She pointed to a large tray filled with iron goblets. "Smile, and let the warriors take their own cup of mulled cider. Try not to spill it. When your tray is empty, come back here and get more."

Like Joan of Arc going to the stake, Cecilia squared her shoulders and picked up the tray.


	3. Chapter 3 - Wagers in Fate

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim in the Avengers franchise. However, the original plots are owned by me.

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**_Chapter 3 - Wagers in Fate_**

The palace throne room was a remarkable achievement in Asgardian craftsmanship. Tall, decorated alabaster pillars held up the high vaulted cathedral ceilings. Beams of pale moonlight streamed through large overhead windows, illuminating the golden throne along the north wall. The dais for the throne was set upon massive slabs of golden steps that glowed with a brilliant light.

Women in shimmering silks of every imaginable color danced by on the arms of men in sleek leather as a mural of stars over the grand fire pit sparkled to reveal a moving scene of Sleipnir carrying the All-Father across the river Thund, whose waters thundered past Valhalla and then out of Asgard through a narrow canyon. Dazzling blue constellations formed the river banks as Sleipnir eight legs galloped faster than the wind, only dimming to gray as Odin rode across the wide, dreary plains that were dotted with putrid lakes and twisted trees that divided Asgard and Jotunheim.

As brilliant hues ignited the massive chamber, Loki hung back in a corner, disguised as Odin, The Father of the Gods, idly listening to the conversations around him. Like a worthy performer, he always appeared in control of the role, skirting the edge of imposture, where the mask envelopes the man; but he was never lost in it. It was impossible to ignore the dear delights of fraud and deception. And though he delighted in deviousness, he stood solemn and silent in the midst of awful solitude, looking in very truth like a god, as one would conceive such a being to appear.

Hreidmar, king of the dwarves of Nidavellir, looked upon the False Odin from the shadows with eyes red and squint. Loki had been endeavoring to consort with the dwarves of Nidavellir for months. It wouldn't do to appear too eager. Bearded and short in stature, the dwarf king beckoned him with a motion of his large, misshapen head. Slowly, Loki stepped away from his corner, arms dangling at his sides; the fingers of each hand barely touching his thighs. He took a deep breath through his nose before joining the meager monarch with coal-colored skin.

The dwarf king raised himself up straight, which looked comical before the great God, and clapped a hand on Loki's forearm. "I have traveled far from my great hall beneath Nidavellir to heed your call, All-Father." The dwarf king then raised his hand, with his index finger pointing up at Loki. "I've produced great works of wonder and powerful weapons for you Asgardians, and yet here I stand. How may I serve Asgard once more?"

Loki took Hreidmar off guard when he tilted his head back, sighing as he glanced upward toward the ceiling, his eyes distant. The starry scene began to illuminate once more. Golden beams of light formed the image of Odin, sitting upon Sleipnir as he led his grandiose armies from Asgard. _How insufferably noble_, Loki thought with repugnance; he grew tired of looking upon his father's face.

He clenched his teeth unconsciously, holding back waves of emotions as the vision of his mother appeared in his mind's eye. Only hushed whispers broke the heavy silence that hung like death over the hollow halls of his mind after her demise. Why was the past invading his thoughts? He'd foolishly ignored common sense and gave in to the pain of it. Loki fought back the memory of Frigga's face – and won gallantly. There were other forces at play.

"Ah, a magnificent sight, is it not?" Loki drawled, musing over the opulent scene unfolding high above their heads. "Do you not agree that Sleipnir is the finest horse in all the Nine Realms? There is none that can compare with his breed."

"That is your opinion," Hreidmar replied.

Loki raised a sardonic eyebrow. "It is a known fact."

"What would you know? You watch the events of the Nine Realms playing themselves out as you sit on your throne in Asgard," the dwarf king said, his voice revealing his growing displeasure. "Can you be so sure of your boast?"

Calm and in control, Loki mocked him in his devious way. "Sure enough to place a wager on it."

"You're a bored fool, All-Father," Hreidmar replied, with surprise in his manner. "Name your stakes."

Loki eyed the dwarf's set jaw and read his determination. _Good_. "Five-hundred pounds of mithril." Dwarves were not greedy by nature; nevertheless, they seemed to succumb too easily to its temptation. Mithril was the foundation of their wealth, in which they delved too greedily, too deeply. "And my head."

The dwarf laughed and displayed a set of large, powerful, and very repulsive teeth. "Against?"

His face was wreathed in a look of contented accomplishment: he gently moved his hands behind his back until they met and clasped them together. "If I am to succeed in proving that no horse in all the worlds can match Sleipnir's speed, I shall have your finest blacksmith."

Sure enough, the dwarf squared his shoulders and lifted a brow. "I accept your wager!" Hreidmar howled. "And I shall win, I guarantee! Set me the task and I will perform it. You shall see."

Loki placed his hands on the dwarf's shoulders. "Tomorrow night, we ride." Hreidmar smiled with self-satisfaction and Loki allowed himself a slight grin as the dwarf reached for a chalice of cider. The False Odin glanced at the young servant holding the tray.

All the blood drained from his face as he took in her black hair and pointed chin.

_Raven_.

Loki's gaze drank in the face he hadn't seen in two years. She would not recognize him under his guise, so he turned on his heel and melted into the crowd. His pulse throbbed in his neck. _Calm_. He reminded himself that he had to remain composed and focused to hold the illusion. If Hreidmar smelled something off, it would ruin his proposal.

He spared a glance back at where he left the dwarf, but she wasn't looking his way. Perhaps she hadn't seen him. What was she doing carrying cider like a maid? Part of him longed to rush to her and announce his true self.

Moments later, Loki found himself in the middle of dancing couples, so he cut in on the man squiring Belle Lios-Alf, an honorary ambassador of Alfheim. "I hope you don't mind, my lady."

"Not at all, All-Father." She flashed him a coy smile that rivaled the sun. She was a beautiful being – pure, innocent, and graceful – possessing a halo of light. He'd known for weeks that the beautiful elf had some fondness for him, and he hated to encourage it now.

The God of Mischief was so distracted he didn't notice the musicians had changed song. Belle picked up her pace, but he didn't. Their feet became entangled. He tried to catch his balance, but it all happened too quickly. He released Belle, so she wouldn't share in his disgrace. In the moment he scrambled away, his arm collided with the soft body of someone behind him. The golden floor rose to meet him, and they both went down in a tangle of limbs. The contents of the goblets darkened the ground to deep garnet.

The rest of the dancers stopped and stared.

He quickly flipped the girl's dress over her lower limbs and sprang to his feet. His apology died when he stared into Raven's scarlet face.

Everyone burst into a fit of laughter.

Then he saw it. The look in her dark eyes hardened. First disbelief, then anger – smoldering, deep-seated, long-nurtured fury that seeped up from someplace deep inside.

Loki could feel the rage well up within her; as if she had centuries of hatred stored in her blood that began rushing through her veins, coursing through her heart, her mind, her fatigue. The shock of the impact had stripped her of any restraint. She could no longer hold back the flood of emotions that had cracked her timidity. The Raven's liquid white eyes filled with that red absolute abhorrence and renewed her vigor tenfold.

A collective gasp rang in the air as goblets, tables and chairs began floating off the ground.

"Impossible," Loki breathed. He could actually feel her power. No longer shielded behind the walls of her mortal shell; he could detect a coral-colored aura of energy emanating from her skin. It gave her a glow.

Her mind cramped from the strain as her hold broke. The anger in her eyes changed to a profound, almost childlike sadness. She screamed as the goblets shattered against the floor and chairs crashed into tables, knocking several couples flat on their backs with the thunderous collision.

For a second, no one said anything; they just stared in open-mouthed shock.

Her eyes were wide and horrified as Loki helped her to her feet. He knelt to put the cups back on the tray. Some of them were broken. To his relief, the rest of the guests began to move off, and the music tinkled out again.

Recalling his façade, he glanced at Belle. "Allow me to apologize, my lady. You are unharmed?"

"I'm well, mighty All-Father." Belle smiled, and the amusement lit her eyes with a warm glow. "That was a much-needed bit of excitement for this too-dull party. I do believe I'll take my leave though and attend to my dress." The beautiful elf gestured at the dark splotches on her gown. He opened his mouth to apologize again, but she held up her hand. "No harm done. I'll see you tomorrow for the banquet."

He gave a slight bow. "I shall look forward to it," he said stiffly.

When her turquoise skirt disappeared in the swirl of other gowns, Loki turned his attention back to Raven. She seemed rooted to the spot. The expulsion of energy must have rattled her.

He took her arm. "Let's get out of here. Make no sign that you know me," he said, guiding her through the crowd to the blessed cool of the hall outside the throne room.

Once in the corridor, she jerked her arm from his grip. "I don't know you! Let go of me," she said, sounding calmer than she felt.

"Ah, there's my pretty raven," he replied quite deliberately, his true self shimmering through his disguise. Loki grew tall as wrinkles receded into his face, at last refining into pale but handsome young features worthy of any of the elven races. He let out a soft groan as he straightened, running a hand through his long blue-black tresses, in many ways he was more comfortable in his true form than as False King Odin.

For a moment, recognition dawned on her face, turning rapidly into shock.

Gently, he knelt to her height, cupping her face. "What is it that vexes you so?"

Raven allowed him to gaze into eyes so dark they were endless pools of blackness, eyes that held fires of rage in their depths. Her heart pounded because there was no mistaking her fury, and she was capable of more than any mortal he'd known. Still, she was so young for all she had been forced to endure.

With the power of his touch, Loki delved into her mind. He relished in walking through memories. Perhaps, it was the voyeur in him or the sense of power it provided.

Her subconscious was a blur of cluttered ideas and trying to make sense of them was almost impossible and nauseating. He opened his eyes slowly, taking in her mind's surroundings one detail at a time, adjusting to the skewed reality that Raven saw.

His body was in a room.

Alone.

Loki brushed past her fear, trying only to see what she saw without the taint of emotion. He saw faces of elderly mortals – some who were dying, some already dead. Those who remained were the center of many of her worries, but there was one worry that didn't fit. One that went deeper, that veered away from those faces. He followed it, letting his mind snake along the path, watching the movie of her life replaying backward at lightning speed. He saw her grow younger, felt knowledge slip away from her. She lost the ability to read, the ability to speak, and yet the tendril continued.

She was tiny then, unable to even roll over in her crib. The world looked huge through her eyes, and the center of it was a woman's face. Her mother.

Suddenly, he felt an uncontrollable power flood his body. He fought to direct it while he still could, fought to give it meaning, but nevertheless he felt it twist through his veins, burning. He felt himself beginning to die. First, he felt his eyes melting, dripping down onto his cheeks. His legs began to crumble and he lurched closer and closer to the floor. He bent over and watched the pieces of his face fall off and lie shriveling – ears, nose, lips teeth and tongue, his eyes last like jelly.

Loki released her with a start; panting as he touched his face to be sure that everything was there as it should be. He opened his eyes, and he could see.

Before him, some distance away, The Raven stared into him, eyes full of disguised anguish. It wasn't fear that bound her to her old life, it was hatred – hatred for what she's been, hatred for what she'd done.

_We are two of a kind_, Loki thought as he beheld her. "After the party, take the back stairway to the third floor and take a right. At the next hall take a left. Say nothing about my identity to anyone," he whispered. "We must talk."

She shook her head, turning toward the kitchen door. "I don't know if I want to. You weren't the king you promised to be."


	4. Chapter 4 - Servant's Quarters

**A/N:** Endeavoring on introducing some new friends and foes into the mix. Enjoy! :o)

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim in the Avengers franchise. However, the original plots are owned by me.

* * *

_**Chapter 4 – Servant's Quarters**_

Somehow, Cecilia managed to keep a pleasant smile on her face while she served the guests their after-dinner drinks and dessert. The king in disguise? Had it been real? She fingered the sore spot on her arm where she'd fallen and knew it was.

Seeing him again had torn the scab off a wound she'd thought had healed years ago. The moment he looked into her eyes, she instantly remembered what had happened. How she heard the fire before seeing it – the sound of it crawling in the walls like a playful scurrying of mice. And then she had heard pounding at the front door – far off, it seemed – and with the pounding, a man's voice shouting, "Get out! Fire! Fire!"

All of it happened in the bewilderment of a groggy awakening from one of her episodes, each moment piling hard against the moment in front of it – the sound of crawling fire, the pounding door, the shouting, and then the heavy smell of smoke. Her emotions churned with the desire to resurrect those memories, but she refrained. Her yearning couldn't be trusted.

Cecilia sidled behind a wooden container that held a strange tree with a long scaly trunk topped by flat, spreading leaves and some kind of round, hard fruit. The party was unlike anything she'd ever imagined. The glorious silks the women wore made her fingers itch with the desire to touch them, especially the mauve ones. No homespun dresses there.

And the throne room itself made her jaw drop. The great vaulted ceilings over the space made it appear even larger than it was. But what held her captive was the enormous gathering of stars frolicking overhead that stretched across the entire chamber.

The multitude of lights glimmered against a blanket of midnight blue velvet. As each group of constellations danced, they were transformed into the likeness of gilded warriors in scenes from ancient legends. The scene that unfolded overhead was that of the Asgardian women, decked in gala attire, preparing to welcome their husbands, friends and lovers home from war. Branches of laurel strewed the roads; bouquets of flowers were lavishly flung beneath the feet of men and horses, while loving hands twined the necks and limbs of battle-scarred veterans with garlands of many-hued blossoms.

She turned away and her gaze collided with Loki's intent stare. She wanted to look away, but couldn't until a sudden buzz of excitement traveled around the throne room from the rose garden outside. Cecilia heard "Midgard" murmured amongst the shimmering ladies that began rustling past to hearken the commotion.

One of the ladies put her hand on the bark of a small tree. "This is one from Midgard," a young, blond maiden announced. "It was brought here with a cocoon of a Red Glider. The last few days, the outside has become translucent – the butterfly is about to emerge."

"What's taking so long?" another female voice asked. "I'd think the struggle would kill it."

The blond nodded. "The butterfly needs the hardship to make it strong enough to fly. That's what gives it the strength to survive. If I were to help, it would die. So all we can do is stand back and observe its own efforts to free itself."

Cecilia stared as movement began in the small cocoon. The group of ladies crowded around to watch. Once it started, it all happened so fast. She held her breath as the insect, wet and ugly, crawled out and clung motionlessly to the leaf.

"It's letting its wings dry now," the blond said. "That will take hours. That's the end of the show for now. Tomorrow this beauty will be up and flying around. Perhaps the King will release it into his garden."

Even while the blond maiden was smiling, the insect quivered and let go of the leaf. It plummeted to the ground where it tried weakly to crawl before going motionless again.

Frowning, one of the younger ladies knelt and prodded it with the end of her spoon. "It's dead. What happened?"

"Perhaps the struggle was too much for it. I feel that way sometimes." Another girl from the group said with a laugh as she turned away.

Cecilia knew the feeling as well. She was so tired of the struggle to find a life for herself. The fire had changed everything for her. Life seemed so hard. Would it ever get better?

One by one, the others went back to talking and laughing while Cecilia watched the blond maiden touch the butterfly with obvious distress.

A pretty, yet older woman dressed in pink put her hand on the girl's shoulder. "There's nothing you can do, Ádís. Come along, darling." She saw Cecilia looking on and motioned to her. "Take this insect away and dispose of it."

Cecilia nearly pretended she didn't hear. She'd never liked butterflies, though she was fascinated by the young maiden's obvious obsession. She nodded and moved closer. "Yes ma'am."

"What is your name?" the woman asked her in a slightly sharp tone.

"Cecilia, ma'am."

The woman nodded. "I see you are new here," she said. "I am addressed as Lady Hadda, or my lady – not ma'am.."

Cecilia bobbed her head. "I beg your pardon, Lady Hadda," she said.

The woman looked her over with evident curiosity, and spoke in a gentler tone. "Who made your dress? It's cut very well."

"I did, Lady Hadda. My mother was a dressmaker and taught me everything she knew," Cecilia said slowly, watching the woman's eyes widen a bit more.

"How old are you?" Lady Hadda asked when she saw Cecilia staring avidly at the butterfly.

"Fifteen."

The woman hesitated, eyeing her strangely, and looked at Ádís. "Do you know anything about hair, Cecilia?"

"Yes, my lady."

"My maid has fallen ill and I'm struggling to dress my hair. Perhaps you can help me temporarily. Come to my suite first thing in the morning," Lady Hadda urged her.

Cecilia nodded.

"Now you may clean this up." Lady Hadda put her hand on her daughter's shoulder again. "Your friends are waiting, my dear. Don't be distressed. There will be more butterflies from Midgard."

"I don't know what happened," her daughter muttered. "I'd like to keep it. It's still beautiful."

"Maybe it was just too weak to survive the emergence. It happens. I'll have the maid put it in your study." She motioned to Cecilia again. "Try not to damage it. Put it on parchment and place it on Ádís' desk."

"And where is that, my lady?" Cecilia trembled inside with the knowledge that she would have to touch it.

"On the second floor, down the main corridor toward the north gardens. Fourth door on the left. It's not locked." She led her daughter away.

Cecilia stared at the carcass. There was nothing beautiful about it in spite of what Ádís said. She tried to figure out what to put it on. She had no paper. _A napkin_? Maybe she could use a teaspoon to scoop it onto a napkin. A tray containing spoons was on the sideboard, so she grabbed one and found a soiled napkin. Holding her breath, she transferred the butterfly to the napkin without having to touch it. Carrying it gingerly, she took it away. It took several tries before she found the right room.

The study was dark, so she put the napkin on the floor and lit a candle on the wall. She blinked when the light flooded the room. She put the insect on the desk, then lingered a moment to look around. More butterfly displays were on the walls and shelves. Feeling a bit eerie, Cecilia blew out the candle and shut the door.

**~o~**

Ambassador Belle Lios-Alf kicked the soiled dress away from her, then pulled the bell to have one of the maids help her. Fuming, she sat on the embroidered stool in front of her dressing table. Her mirror reflected the high color in her cheeks. Why hadn't Odin been more attentive? Instead, she'd been forced to attend to herself.

A young, hazel eyed maid poked her head in. "Can I help you, Lady Lios-Alf?"

Belle pointed at the heap of turquoise silk. "Yes. Discard this; it's been ruined."

"Yes, my lady." The maid paused, and smoothed the fabric with a gentle hand. "If you don't mind, my lady, I'll see if we can get the stain out. The garment is very beautiful."

"Do whatever you like with it. I will never wear it again." Belle turned her back to the mirror and yanked the pins from her flowing blond hair. "My head aches. You can brush my hair before you take the dress."

"Of course, my lady." The girl laid the dress over the back of a brocade chair by the door and moved to the dressing table. She picked up the horsehair brush and drew it through Belle's long, glowing hair.

Belle frowned as she remembered the way Odin had been so solicitous of the new maid. "I've never seen that chit the All-father fell on this evening. Who is she?"

"A new kitchen maid, my lady. I don't know her name."

"You might warn her to stay away from the guests. She's just enough of a rube to think drawing attention to herself in that manner is allowed. She'll find herself banished if she isn't careful."

"I'll tell her, my lady." The maid put down the brush. "Is that all?"

"Draw a bath for me before you go."

Belle reached out a hand and restrained the girl when she started toward the attached bathroom. "One more thing, girl. I want you to keep your ears open about Odin. I want to know everything you hear. Where he is going and what his plans are."

The maid's eyes were expressionless. "Of course, my lady. Does your father know?" She bit her lip. "Forgive me I spoke out of turn. It's none of my concern."

The elf smiled, certain the girl would carry the tale back to the kitchen, just as she planned. She hadn't been oblivious to the way the servants fawned over the All-Father. "I shall tell my father when I'm ready."

"Of course, my lady." The maid vanished into the bathroom, and the sound of the water began.

Belle tosses her hair away from her face. Her plans would fall into place. She would make sure of that.

**~o~**

"_After the party, take the back stairway to the third floor and take a right. At the next hall take a left."_

Her chest tight, Cecilia crept through the dark halls and corridors.

The King's instructions had been vague, and the palace was so large and intimidating. The hallways were poorly lit. There were no lighted sconces in those seldom-traveled halls. She took a breath, felt for the wall, and hurried on, counting her steps carefully.

She paused at the first intersection, and then turned right. Disembodied voices, too low to make out any words, added to her sense of disorientation. She hurried down the hall as if she knew exactly where she was going, even though she was terrified some monster would loom out of the shadows. She was even more frightened that she would open the wrong door. Cecilia reached the next junction and took a left. The room was supposed to be the last door on the right.

Cecilia opened the door and stepped inside, then shut it and leaned against it with her eyes closed. She'd made it. Opening her eyes, she gathered the black drapery of her dress about her and stepped to the open window where she could see the lights of Asgard's roaring white-flamed river. Wagons and horses still clattered past, and the laughter from a tavern down the road came to her ears.

A form moved out from the clump of shadows and came forward to meet her. "Changed your mind?" The sly king Loki glided toward her with his soft, cat-like step. He studied her carefully, and she tried her best to not cringe under such intense scrutiny. "How white you are – even to your face. Did I frighten you?"

Gone was the confused child he'd met long ago and gone was that look of innocent displacement. In its stead was a jagged resolve of flashing dark eyes returning his intense, unblinking gaze. "No," she replied evenly.

Loki rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "Why not?" he asked softly – intimately.

"Because you want me to be."

Loki laughed with a laughter that seemed soft and pure. "Come away, then, if you're not afraid," he said as he sat upon the windowsill.

Overhead, the stars shone bright and clear. Slender branches of willow trees stirred with a faint, sighing sound. A fitful wind rustled the dead leaves upon the grass and a passing step below lagged, paused, and then went on, growing faint at last in the distance.

"I can only stay a moment; they would come looking for me," he added quickly.

"And if they did? If they found you here?"

"Then I shall be disgraced before them all." There was something like triumph in his voice.

Cecilia was filled with apprehension, and yet with a strange joy at the thought of seeing him again. "Is it all that you imagined it to be? Being king?" she asked with a measure of curiosity. "I imagine it's hard having to wear an old face. It must be painful."

"A plague on respectability; it's too delicate a garment for me," he said with a laugh which jarred upon Cecilia even more than the words. "I threw mine away some time ago."

"Why have you summoned me?" Cecilia asked. "Though I'm glad to be here, I never planned on this becoming my home. It felt like the choice was being made for me. I'm not strong or powerful like everyone else."

"Yes, you are," Loki affirmed, placing cold hands upon her shoulders. Their eyes met and locked, his in ferocity, hers in sheer terror. "Will you keep a secret?"

Cecilia nodded.

"Raven, you are powerful, but you lack skills and need to be trained so you can gain control over your power," he finally admitted. "I will instruct you."

She stepped back and squared away her shoulders. "Have you seen what I've seen?" Was it the pain that brought a sob with her words?

"In thousands of different minds and hearts," he replied, almost boasting the fact.

"Can it be _controlled_? Tell me the truth!" she demanded, familiar with his nature. "Have you felt emotions that battled with your own; that made you angry when you weren't? Felt irrational, violent rage? Have you allowed intruders inside your mind? This is the only way I can live with it – to surrender, to absorb, to _serve_. But you – you drew it out of me again. That's not happened before. That's the truth of it."

Loki did not seem to hear her questions. He sat quietly for a long moment, long enough that Cecilia began to think he was consciously avoiding giving her an answer. "You know, the truth is cheap. It's the price we pay to uncover the truth that costs us so dearly." Loki mused. "Your eyes lie, and tell you that this is not so. And you believe the lie, because it's easier. Does this mortal weakness lie within you?"

"No," Cecilia protested, "it's strength. I regret what I've done because it brings me down to another level – your level."

"You have such a low opinion of me," Loki went on, with a malicious sneer. "Ah well, dear Raven, shall I tell you more of my misdeeds?"

"Tell me about all these years since I saw you last," she whispered.

"_Tell _you?" he said, eyes turning upon her fiercely. "You don't know what you ask."

Suddenly, the sound of voices broke out into the night. There was a sweeping of garments over the veranda below.

Loki sank back into the room. "I must go," he whispered. "I've lingered too long."

Cecilia cried, "You can't just leave-"

"_Hush_!" he held a hand to his lips, for her voice had risen dangerously. "I'll meet you tomorrow night. I will not miss you. We have much more to discuss." He was already standing at the front of the room, his hand on the handle to the door. Their eyes caught for a moment before he turned and disappeared through the doorway.

The voices ceased. It was only a party of girls crossing the veranda. They had passed on and the palace was still again.

Cecilia stood for a moment, leaning against the door where he had left her. This was the meeting she had looked forward to for years past? This was the new life which was to come to her through him? What happened to him, she could not be sure, but it was not noble. For the first time she realized the burden she had taken upon herself – realized that, though her presence might influence him, when away from her he would fall into the old channels which led she knew not where, but away from everything good and honest and true.

Though her heart was heavy and sad, and full of forebodings when she claimed her loyalty to him so long ago, she would still remain true to her word.

She locked the window behind her and glanced around the room. A metal bedstead held a double mattress that sagged a bit in the middle, covered with red and white silks. A large night table held several large candles and books lay beside it. From her pockets, she pulled her golden thimble and green thread, placing them in the drawer.

Opening the closet, she found her valise. Her two dresses were wrinkled from the trip, so she shook them out before hanging them in the grandiose closet. It looked rather droll. She took off her black dress and hung it up, then pulled out her nightgown.

There was something scratchy on the shoulder, and she held it to the candlelight. _A piece of paper?_ She unpinned it and studied the single word: _Welcome_. The note made her feel a bit uneasy. Why would someone take the trouble to go through her things? Unless, one of the kitchen maids must have thought to do it. She smiled in spite of the way her head ached, and then found her brush. She pulled out the hairpins, then brushed out her long black tresses and braided them.

The door creaked open behind her, and the hazel eyed maid she had met earlier stepped into the room. "You're still up! I expected you to have found your rest by now." She shut the door. "Still no lock on this door, though I've asked five times. I'm Gyra."

"Cecilia." She glanced out through the dark window and shuddered. She wouldn't sleep a wink. She stared at Gyra. There had been no time to take the measure of her roommate when she'd first arrived. The other girl was tall, a good head taller than Cecilia. Her light brown hair was clean and glossy, and her clothing fit well. She took pride in her appearance. Cecilia liked Gyra's clear gaze and friendly smile. Perhaps they could be real friends. She needed a companion.

Gyra frowned as she took in Cecilia's expression. "Aw, it's your first night, love. You'll get used to it. Asgard isn't so bad."

When Gyra touched Cecilia's arm, she flinched and swallowed hard. Her eyes burned with the effort to hold back tears. "So many people. Such lavish clothes and all. I hardly knew what to say to anyone."

"You're about to cry. I know you're feeling alone, but we'll all be friends."

At the girl's kind words, Cecilia lost the battle. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she gulped. "Of course that's all it is. Homesickness. I'm not used to the city. It's noisy here," she added when men guffawed again from the tavern below. "And thank you for the note."

"What note?"

Cecilia picked it up off the bed. "Didn't you put this on my nightgown?"

Gyra stared at it and shook her head. "Probably one of the other kitchen maids." She patted Cecilia's shoulder. "Things will look brighter in the morning." She took off her silk scarf. "I heard you nearly got squashed at the ball."

Cecilia nodded as she sank onto the edge of the bed. The sheets smelled clean and fresh. "The King fell on me."

Gyra disrobed and pulled on a long silk nightgown. "Don't worry. The king is a lovely man. Always kind and polite. A bit mysterious though," Gyra said, plaiting her hair.

Cecilia's pulse sped up. "Mysterious?"

Gyra frowned. "He's very withdrawn – a shadow of his former self. And the court sees it," she quickly added, shifting her gaze. "He seldom rides upon Sleipnir and into the other realms. It's a rare occasion when he mentions Thor and he utterly refuses to speak of Prince Loki or Queen Frigga – may they rest in peacefully in Valhalla." Her expression cleared and she smiled at Cecilia. "What did he say when he helped you up?"

Loki? Odin's son? _Dead_?

What _had_ he said? Cecilia couldn't remember. She'd been lost in rage.

Gyra touched her arm. "You have a funny expression. Are you in pain?"

The pain was enough to suffocate her, but Cecilia shook her head. "I just have so many questions. I hardly know where I am or if this is all a dream."

"You'll know at five that it's all too real." Gyra crawled into the left side of the bed.

"We get up at five?"

Gyra nodded. "Gods don't sleep, but we do. You'll need to help in the kitchen, and then prepare the Lady Ambassador Lios-Alf's breakfast and take it up to her. She doesn't have a lady's maid. Her morning room will need to be freshly cleaned, and you can do that tomorrow. We take turns."

It all sounded quite overwhelming. "Lady Hadda asked me to attend to her in the morning. Her maid is ill and she is struggling with her hair."

Gyra's brows drew together. "Why would she ask you? She could have asked me or one of the other maids to help her."

Cecilia bit her lip at the censure in Gyra's voice. "She looked at my dress and asked if I had made it." She pulled back the threadbare sheets and slid into the bed. The slight sag in the middle made her roll against Gyra.

"We should get some rest." Gyra's voice was chipped. "It's nearly two. Put out the light."

"Of course." Cecilia blew out the candle. "Gyra? I didn't mean to upset you." The darkness added to the silence for a long moment.

"It's alright, love. I'm not mad at you. Just a little jealous you've been singled out so quickly. Take advantage of tomorrow," she said with a sigh. "I'd love to be a lady's maid, but I've never gotten the chance."

"It's only temporary until her maid is well."

"We'll see."

Cecilia gulped and tried to hug the edge of the bed. With all her heart she wished she were back in Stuttgart sewing suits.

**~o~**


	5. Chapter 5 - Brokk and Eiti

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim to the Marvel franchise. However, all original plots are owned by me.

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_**Chapter 5 – Brokk and Eiti**_

Cecilia's eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. She'd lain awake listening to every creak outside in the hall and wishing there were a way to lock their bedroom door. She thought of sleep, of how good sleep would be, and the thought caused her to close her eyes, but only for a moment.

As if by magic, she awakened with fire around her, sensing herself rising from her bed until she was suspended against the ceiling, swirling around with the smoke in a boneless body. Gradually, she recalled being revived by neighbors bringing water to her face with the palms of their hands, and hearing their hysterical cries coming as loud as the sirens of fire trucks and police cars. She saw the bright colors of flames playing leapfrog across the roof ridge of her home.

Unable to move, she heard again, _Mama_, _Mama_. The words were screamed – her screams. Burned, they had said of her mother - the crinkled skin of burn-scars on the right side of her face, neck and disfigured ear.

She remembered the sickness of terror.

The red haze became a blanket as the moments leaped in time, becoming enveloped in a sea of emerald green. She fixed her eyes on the burning home and saw a dark figure, rather isolated, coming slowly toward her. At first, she could only see that there was color distinguishing the figure from the smoke. Gradually, as it neared her, the shape took on human form. Then she could see it was a man.

It was Loki.

He smiled, there seemed to be gentleness about him. She was about to say "Hello" and reach out to touch him when suddenly a frosty chill came over her. She pulled back.

Loki drifted with her, never crowding her, but also never backing off.

_I see what you see_. The words came to her in a subdued whisper.

Then, there was only smoke around her. She was alone again, silently listening to the crackling of fire.

In the morning, Cecilia pushed away thoughts of her dream as she hurriedly slipped on her black dress before going off to find the kitchen. She made several wrong turns before she found the kitchen stairway in the back of the palace. The large room teemed with activity as kitchen maids scurried around. The woman in black stood in the center of the chaos, directing the efforts with a soft voice undergirded with steel. Not a wisp of red hair had dared escape her pins.

Cecilia stepped closer. "Ma'am?"

The matron looked up. "There you are, Cecilia. I believe introductions are in order. I'm Runa. Gyra has offered to take over your shift tending to Ambassador Lios-Alf so you can learn the ropes here in the kitchen." She pointed to the large wooden worktable.

"I'm happy to do whatever you want. I'm to go see Lady Hadda this morning after breakfast. Her maid is ill and she wants me to help her with her hair," Cecilia said, looking away.

The woman's face went blank. "She told me. What did you do to merit such a request?"

"Nothing, ma'am. She looked me over last night and asked who made my dress. I made it myself. The next thing I knew, she was ordering me to help her this morning."

"I won't have a maid who is scheming behind my back," the woman pursed her lips. "Did you come here hoping to work your way out of servitude?"

Cecilia held the woman's gaze. "I came here expecting lots of things. I only wish to be of service to the King and earn my living. I'm unfamiliar with what a lady's maid even does."

Slowly, Runa's eyes softened. "Very well. I'll accept your story, for now. There's nothing wrong with working your way up in the world, but I don't like conspirators."

Cecilia glanced at Gyra, then back at the matron. "Neither do I ma'am." She moved to the worktable to begin preparations for breakfast.

As soon as Runa left the kitchen, Gyra moved closer to Cecilia. Her hazel eyes were anxious and high color stained her cheeks. "I hope you're not upset, Cecilia. I know how Lady Belle likes things done, and I thought you'd have enough to learn today without more."

Was that the only reason for the change? Cecilia studied her roommate's expression, but couldn't make up her mind. "I appreciate your concern."

Gyra ducked her head and moved back to her post when Runa came back into the room.

It was going to take all of Cecilia's concentration to figure out her place in Asgard and who was friend or foe.

**~o~**

Cecilia's heart pounded as she entered Lady Hadda's room to wait for her as instructed. The bedchamber was enormous. Gold covered the expansive walls that rose to a domed ceiling at least twelve feet high. The fresco around the top gleamed with gilding. The furniture was in impeccable condition and the sweet aroma of flowers permeated the room.

She touched the blue cover over the gigantic bed. Pure silk. She whirled and put her hands behind her back as her employer entered from the balcony. Lady Hadda was dressed in a pale pink robe, and her hair hung in loose waves on her shoulder.

She lifted a brow at Cecilia's appearance. "Ah, Cecilia. There you are, I'm finished with breakfast. You may take the tray away after you've assisted me," Lady Hadda said, gesturing to the balcony.

"Of course, my lady."

Lady Hadda walked to a door and pulled it open to reveal lustrous gowns of every imaginable color. I'm meeting with the ambassadors for an afternoon ride," she said. "But I'm not sure what to wear."

"May I?"

When Lady Hadda nodded, Cecilia reached past her. "This is very fashionable." She pulled out a dark blue gown.

Lady Hadda's pale eyes looked at Cecilia objectively, like an artist would. "Is it fashionable in Midgard?"

Cecilia gulped and replied, in avoidance, "The shorter length will make it easier to get on and off your horse."

"I haven't worn that yet. The hem seemed scandalously short." She raised a questioning brow at Cecilia.

"It's only two inches higher than normal," Cecilia replied, smiling at her.

Lady Hadda nodded, thinking it over. "Clearly you've studied fashion."

The tension began to ease from Cecilia's shoulders. "Yes, my lady." She caressed the fine fabric of the skirt. "This is very well made."

"It should be. It cost the earth. I'll trust your judgment and wear it."

Lady Hadda allowed Cecilia to dress her, then stepped back to look into the mirror. She was aglow, standing in awe as she turned and looked.

"It fits perfectly," Cecilia affirmed, her eyes examining the garment closely. "There's nothing I would change."

"So you're a dressmaker now, too?" said Lady Hadda, moving toward the dressing table.

Cecilia took her place behind Lady Hadda and lifted her tresses in her hands. "I was once," she whispered softly. The woman had such a soft, fine, honey-colored mane of hair. Combs of gold and ivory lying at hand on the rosewood dressing table, and ribbons of blue and gold silk, everything a lady could ever ask for.

She plaited Lady Hadda's hair in braids as thin as bluebell stems, only wisps of hair in each strand one after another with both her deft hands as if each was as easy as a caress, making them stay with merely a touch of two fingers at the end. Cecilia did this until all her hair lay in a silky cascade of plaits catching the light, glimmering and swaying like rich drapery when she moved her head. Some of them Cecilia gathered and looped with the ribbons that matched her gown, but most were left hanging down her back and shoulders.

She surveyed her work with just a whisper of a smile and when she was finished, she stepped away. "What do you think?"

Lady Hadda put her hand to her hair. "It's lovely, quite lovely." She twisted on the stool and looked up at Cecilia. "Your talents are wasted in the kitchen. I think you would suit quite well as a lady's maid to Ambassador Belle Lios-Alf. I shall speak with her at once."

Cecilia's heart sank a bit. "I've heard she doesn't wish to have a lady's maid." And she also thought that Gyra might not appreciate such a fast promotion for her.

"That may be true, but I'll prevail upon her. Leave it to me." She rose and slid her feet into her shoes. "Run along with the tray. We'll talk later."

"Yes, my lady." Cecilia curtsied and went to the balcony to retrieve the tray.

The garden looked glorious in the morning sunlight. Jaw-droppingly beautiful blooms, with heavy, ruffling petals glowed in hues of raspberry or watermelon with pink ribs and gold throats, crimson with veining and shading in burgundy, apricot shaded gold, or the most melting, sugary pinks. The trees were perfectly manicured and scattered about the vast landscape. But her gaze fell on a familiar form. Loki stood with his hands clasped behind his back, an achingly familiar stance. The sun illuminated the planes and angles of his cheekbones and deep-set eyes. It almost felt strange to see him without his disguise.

"_I see what you see_."

With a start, she stepped away, breaking the gaze. Her heart couldn't bear any more memories for one day.

**~o~**

When the night fell and Asgard darkened once more, Loki rode northward on Sleipnir, gazing up into the ultramarine sky. No longer accustomed to long treks, the ache of all day in the saddle, the scent of horses and the trail dust, the sensation of wind and heat on his face were familiar enough anchors for him to manage. He felt more at ease, almost confident.

Overhead, cloud tufts were like white streaks of a painter's brush across a dazzling backdrop of iridescent blue and backlit by dazzling wisps of red, violet and blue.

Feeling the ground shake, he looked off to the east. Hreidmar thundered up along the hill trail behind him. His drooping eyes and sagging back told Loki that he was already weary.

"Ah, Hreidmar. For a moment, I thought you weren't going to show." Loki's brows raised just a fraction, mocking the man, and he smiled unpleasantly.

"I have nothing to lose," replied the dwarf king. "Your head rests on the block, not mine."

At his best, Loki radiated confidence. He felt that if he played the game, he would win, period. "I have no intention of losing it." It was a statement of fact.

"Have you heard of the horse named Skeidbrimir?"

"'_The one which snorts as he runs_,' if I'm not mistaken. That's truly interesting," Loki chuckled. "Fifth best in the Realms. Your claims were nothing but boast."

"Boast you dare say?" Hreidmar roared. "My Skeidbrimir will leave your eight-legged dog in his dust!"

"Let us see it then!"

Hreidmar kicked his heels into Skeidbrimir's belly and raced away alongside the False Odin on Sleipnir. The two of them sped across the land, over hills and across the barren plains. Neither God nor dwarf gained the advantage as they raced on. No matter what terrain they crossed, they remained neck and neck.

Nineteen rivers they crossed and over cutting mountains and through dense forests they sped on like the wind. Hreidmar was so absorbed in winning the race itself that he didn't realize they had left Asgard far behind. It finally dawned on Hreidmar, as they neared the land of fallen warriors, that he was racing against the mighty Father of All Gods in a territory only Odin was far too familiar with.

When Hreidmar looked to his side; he discovered that Odin was gone. When he looked forward once more, he saw the All-Father waiting for him beside Valgrind, the outer gate of Valhalla.

The False Odin laughed in triumph. "That's a mighty fine horse you have there," Loki said, pulling Sleipnir's reins.

Hreidmar scowled, too angry to speak.

"After such a race, I imagine you and your steed must be thirsty," Loki surmised. "Let your horse drink his fill from the river, while we go into Valhalla and have a drink. What say you?"

With Hreidmar's reluctant nod of acquiescence, Loki led him into Valhalla. As they passed through the great entrance, the All-Father's two wolves, Freki and Geri growled furiously at the sight of their master, noticing a change in his scent. But the snarls were subdued by the noise from Valhalla's Hall of Heroes, which shook the rafters and sounded like all the mountains in all the Nine Realms were crashing down. They passed countless legions of warriors feasting and drinking within the golden hall, refreshing themselves after a day's battle.

As they entered the hall, four Valkyries appeared before them. One carried two massive horns filled with rich, golden ale. Loki spoke to them, "Hreidmar comes unarmed to his hall, so let no one raise a weapon against him. He may come to drink and then leave in peace. So is the Will of Odin."

Bowing, the Valkyries handed a horn to Loki and Hreidmar.

"Come and drink with me, friend," Loki said gently, sporting a most magnificent sneer.

Hreidmar took the first horn and drank it down as Loki watched and, when he was done, Loki handed him the second; and the dwarf king finished it just as quickly. Soon, as Loki had hoped, the dwarf appeared to be feeling the effects of all the ale.

Then, without warning, the dwarf king shouted, "The terms!"

The False Odin looked at him through his one good eye. "Ah, yes. Our wager. I do remember some such absurdity. But, come now. You're not serious about that gamble, are you?" Loki asked with fabricated coyness.

Hreidmar glared at the All-Father. "Indeed I am! Never let it be said that Hreidmar, King of the Dwarves of Nidavellir, walked away from a wager. Before this circus of unpredictabilities closes its tent, I shall honor your terms."

Loki turned his head and arched a sardonic brow. "The terms have changed."

Hreidmar's mood rapidly turned sour. "Have they, now?" he said. Loki could feel his censure as though he'd rapped him on the knuckles.

Eyes twinkling, he gave the dwarf king a charming smile in return. "I wish you to consign Brokk and Eiti Sindri to my service."

The dwarf exploded into laughter. "I'll smash Asgard into a billion pieces before I hand over the creators of Mjollnir," Hreidmar declared, with his chest puffed out. "Do the sons of Ivaldi not satisfy the needs of Asgard?"

Loki did not react. His face remained stone-like. "Asgard is grateful for their service, but I'm unwilling to accept anything less for the task they must venture to complete."

"And what task does Asgard demand of the most masterful of all my craftsmen?"

"Revealing my plans was not part of the terms we agreed upon." Loki stared coldly into Hreidmar's eyes. "Nevertheless, I will allow you this one courtesy. Brokk and Eiti are to indoctrinate a novice – a weapons smith – for Asgard."

"You're mad!" Hreidmar's composure was gone. The dwarf king reached out his hands, raising them until Loki was forced to look, to see the fine workmanship, and the amazing finesse with which they had been crafted.

"These are not warrior's hands," the dwarf king began slowly, "they are the hands of a weapons smith and a man. You are not given these hands without purpose, Odin. You are given these hands because Yggdrasil has given them to you. Yggdrasil did not grant blessings without a reason and does not offer blessings to those unworthy. Do you understand me?"

Loki nodded, squeezing the dwarf's hands, marveling that he could feel the pressure exerted on his artificial extremities. The pieces of his plan were coming together and it was time to play the trump.

"Know this – my people, my fellow gods, are not always kind. They do not respect weakness. They respect strength. If you would be respected, you will have to summon your strength and keep your word. Bring Brokk and Eiti to me, otherwise you will dishonor yourself in the eyes of Asgard and you will lose face before all of realms." Loki chuckled with relish. "Dearest friend, the game waits to be played. Meanwhile, shall we look in on your craftsmen?"

"_That_ was not part of the agreement." Hreidmar pointed. "I will keep my word and my _strength_. Brokk and Eiti will be in Asgard's service, but you did not specify when or where!" Then the dwarf was laughing – laughter so thunderous that it seemed that the Ragnarok itself was upon them. "Truly you are a bored fool, Odin. Heed me; my craftsman will not leave the caves of Nidavillir for the inferior forges and metals of Asgard. Your business with them will remain in _our_ realm, until this task has been fulfilled."

Loki pulled away from the dwarf king's grip. "What?"

Under the façade of the mighty All-Father, Loki's eyes were wide in shock – a rage burned in them fiercely, as if all of his innermost anger had come to a boiling point.

The God of Mischief and Lies thwarted by a filthy Halfling who dares call himself King? For a second, he thought of bargaining power of offering the mithril, but he shook away the thought, unwilling to acknowledge his carelessness.

For a moment, Loki stood in stunned silence, attempting to digest the implications of what Hreidmar was saying. His thoughts turned quickly to the Raven. The forges of Nidavillir would prove too much for her.

Hreidmar observed Odin's expression, grinning at him insultingly, showing blackened teeth and emitting a customary foul smell. "You understand already, All-Father. The hands of Brokk and Eiti come at a price. You must now pay it."

**~o~**

* * *

**A/N**: According to Norse mythology Brokk and Eiti (Sindri) were dwarf brothers and master craftsmen, who were jealous of the craftsmanship of the sons of Ivaldi.

Loki made a wager with Brokk and Eiti, that they could not make anything better than the sons of Ivaldi. The bet was that Loki would lose his head if Brokk and Eiti made something better. The brothers went on to create the Gullinbursti ("golden bristles") for Freyr, the _Draupnir_ (Ring of Power) for Odin and _Mjollnir_ (magic war hammer) for Thor.

Ultimately, Loki lost his bet against the dwarves. Though the gods refused to allow the dwarves to take Loki's head, they did agree to allow Brokk to sew Loki's mouth shut.


	6. Chapter 6 - Vile Pretence

**A/N**: A special thanks goes out to my lovely and talented beta, ShahbanouScheherazade, for all of her wonderful support and helpful advice!

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim in the Marvel franchise. However, the original plots are owned by me.

* * *

_**Chapter 6 – Vile Pretence**_

As the morning drew on, Cecilia grew all the more anxious concerning the proposal of her appointment as Belle's lady's maid. She had skillfully prepared breakfast for the Alfheim Ambassador, who had sent word to the kitchen, specifically naming Cecilia to attend to her for the day.

The tea, brewed exactly three minutes per specification, was the perfect temperature when Cecilia loaded the items onto a solid silver tray and moved with haste up the back stairs to the main hallway on the fourth floor.

Outside Belle's door, she balanced the tray in one hand and tapped softly.

"Enter." Belle's faint voice held impatience.

Cecilia stepped inside the room and spied the beautiful elf outside on the veranda. Seated on a small iron chair at a round table, Belle barely glanced up from the book in her hand. The white robe she wore over her nightgown was the finest silk, and her long, glowing hair lay loose, cascading down over one shoulder.

The breeze, carrying with it the scent of grass and flowers, blew across the balcony railing. Cecilia eyed the breathtaking view of the east garden. Although the weather was turning cool, the garden had evergreen shrubs that kept it lush and beautiful. From the garden wall looking south, she could see the fiery river below. She imagined how beautiful it would be to watch the sun peek over mountains each day.

Cecilia averted her gaze to the ground and set the tray on the small table. "Your breakfast, my lady."

"So I see. I'm not really hungry this morning." Belle put down her book and picked up a piece of toast. "You're the new maid?" Her tone held challenge.

Cecilia curtsied. "I'm Cecilia, the new kitchen maid, Lady Lios-Alf. I arrived the other night."

Belle's gaze swept over her. "The All-Father spoke quite highly of you."

Cecilia smiled and nodded. "The King is a most gracious man."

Belle looked down at the tray. "I suppose I must eat. I have an appointment with Ambassadors of the Realms." Her lip curled. "It seems my grandfather has found a match for me that will please the Æsir. I can't abide the company, but my father insists."

Cecilia poured tea into a nearly translucent cup. "Was he at the party? I'm not sure which gentleman he was."

"He was the tall Vanir man with the red face. And he was always perspiring." Belle wrinkled her nose.

Cecilia couldn't place him. "He's looking for a wife?" She took the cover off the food plate, and then spread a small square of fine linen on Belle's lap.

Belle put her book face down on the table. "Unfortunately, my grandfather is determined that this man shall be my husband."

Cecilia couldn't imagine being pressured to marry someone. Her mother had always allowed her to make her own decisions. She barely suppressed a shudder at the thought of sharing a bed with someone she didn't love. Heat raced to her cheeks.

"I'd like some tea this afternoon. You may bring it up before the banquet."

Cecilia hesitated. "I'll be sure to tell Runa. She'll make sure it's here."

"I'm instructing _you_ to bring it." Belle's eyes turned upon her fiercely.

"I'll try, Lady Lios-Alf, but Runa directs my work." Cecilia bit her lip.

When Belle glowered, Cecilia gulped and retreated to the bedroom to pick up the disaster of discarded dresses and undergarments.

A shadow blocked the sunshine, and Cecilia turned to see Belle in the doorway. "Did you need something, my lady?"

"I saw you speaking with the All-Father at the party last night. You seemed rather comfortable with him." Her eyes sparkled with accusation.

Heat seared Cecilia's cheeks. "He _did_ knock me down. I think he wanted to assure himself I was unharmed." She draped the clothing over the back of the chair by the door.

"It appeared to be more than that to me."

Cecilia dropped her gaze. Did Belle know of Loki's disguise? She'd promised not to betray him. A tiny white lie lingered on her tongue, but she couldn't bring herself to speak it. "Gyra showed me the stain on your dress. I hope to be able to repair it later today. In the morning light, it's not as bad as we'd thought."

"Truly? I did like that dress." Belle waved a hand toward the wardrobe. "Now that you're here, you can button my dress. Lady Hadda keeps insisting on hiring a lady's maid, but I'm not at all fond of the idea. The creatures are usually scuttling around behind one's back telling tales. I don't suppose you know enough yet to carry stories to the kitchen."

"I wouldn't anyway, my lady." Cecilia moved to the wardrobe. "What would you like to wear?" She tugged open the heavy door and surveyed the myriad options of colorful attire. A faint scent of cedar wafted from the interior.

Belle waved her hand. "I don't care. I hardly wish to impress the Vanir."

"How about this silk?" Cecilia pulled out a deep garnet dress. "It would look lovely with your eyes and hair. The trailing skirt is very stylish."

"It's new." Belle allowed Cecilia to remove her nightgown, and then drop the dress over her head and fasten it in the back. Belle sat on the small stool in front of her dressing table. "See what you can do with my hair. I want it up as tightly as possible. No curls, nothing to make me look too attractive."

Cecilia nodded and picked up the silver hairbrush. Belle's hair was thick and fine. Trying to be gentle, she managed to get it up in a tight bun at the back of Belle's head. "I think it's impossible to make you less attractive, my lady," Cecilia said, offering a compliment. Perhaps the elf would allow Cecilia to linger under her good graces.

Belle turned her head from one side to the other and stared at herself in the mirror. "No powder today and maybe another dress instead. This one is too flashy. It screams, '_Take me! Take me! I am your war prize._'" Belle scoffed and went to her wardrobe again. "This one." She selected a dark brown one.

Cecilia helped her change, and then nodded. "A good choice, but you are still very lovely." The darker color made Belle appear pale and fragile like a flower that needed tending. Any man worthy of the name would want to be the one to care for her.

Belle turned toward the still-open French doors. "I'm hungry now, Cecilia. Would you bring me hot food? This is quite cold. And tea as well."

"Of course, my lady." Cecilia retrieved the cold breakfast.

A tap sounded on the door, and Lady Hadda poked her head in. "Oh good, you're up." She stepped into the room. "Cecilia did your hair, I see. She's quite good, isn't she?"

Cecilia smiled and curtsied as she took her leave with the tray, closing the door behind her.

Belle shrugged. "It will suffice."

"I think it's time we hired you a lady's maid. In fact, I believe Cecilia will do quite well for you."

Belle's head came up and her eyes flashed. "I have no wish for a maid. I can call Cecilia whenever I please."

Lady Hadda pressed her lips together. "I'm afraid your father insists. And who am I to refuse a favor from Freyr? It's time you were married. Cecilia understands fashion, and she's quite a good seamstress. She will be an ally when you go to your married home in Vanaheim."

"She's much too pretty." Belle bit her lip as though she was sorry she'd let the words slip out.

"Truly, these words do not escape the lips of a Light Elf of Alfheim?" Lady Hadda laughed. "You are the most beautiful creature in the Nine Realms. She's no competition for you."

**~o~**

When Cecilia stepped into the hallway, she started back the way she thought she came. She was very tired – and hot. Her shoulders slumped and she fanned herself with her hand. She had not gone very far before realizing she was in a corridor that she hadn't traveled through.

"Has the raven flown too far and lost its way?"

On the edge of shadowy corridor stood a solitary man. His long black hair shone like polished ebony and his eyes were mesmerizing. Cecilia's eyes widened when she realized Loki had dropped his disguise within the palace's main corridor. His unblinking gaze beckoned her, and she discerned a slight upturning of the corners of his lips as he fixed his cool gaze upon her.

It was a practiced, confident stare.

A hint of blush ran up her neck.

Cautiously, she glanced down the hall toward Lady Lios-Alf's room to be sure no one was watching, and then approached him.

Cecilia quickly saw in his eyes that he was troubled. "What are you doing?" he asked reproachfully.

She looked down at her tray, refusing to meet his gaze. "Merely on an errand for Ambassador Lios-Alf. She wanted me to fetch hot food for her."

Suddenly, Loki lashed out and knocked the tray out of her hands. "Drop this vile pretence." The surprised look on her face seemed to give him grim satisfaction. He certainly had her attention.

Her color deepened. "What did you do that for?" She said furiously, looking at the mess on the floor. "Who do you think has to clean this up?"

"Not you. Never again," Loki said, turning to place a hand on the wall he stood against. Gradually, a doorway began to mold itself out of the gold. "Come away, if you're still not afraid."

With her hands behind her back, she edged away. "I don't think Lady Lios-Alf would approve. She saw me speaking to you the other evening and questioned me."

"I don't care a whit about her." Loki said petulantly, bringing the weight of his glare onto her.

Cecilia's eyes softened as she stared at him and the defiance on her face eased. "I never imagined you did."

Loki let out a long-suffering sigh. "Well, you've certainly taken all the fun out of this venture." He whirled around toward the dark passageway and gripped her arm, guiding her through. "Come."

Cecilia obliged his command, rolling her eyes childishly, before stealing one last look at the muddle of biscuits and broken china she left behind. What would Gyra and Runa think of having to clean up such a mess? Would they come looking for her?

Once she was safely across the threshold, the doorway melted away, leaving a mass of solid gold in its wake.

The palace was a maze of dark corridors that branched off into narrow arteries, designed to be impassable by anyone who hadn't spent a lifetime learning the routes, secret passages and dead ends. But nonetheless, Cecilia glanced at Loki, realizing she had a distinct advantage. After several moments of walking, she stopped to absorb the surrounding passageway, which was only lit by a few lonely sconces along the walls in intervals, glinting shadows and suggestions.

She clasped her hands together in front of her proper black dress. "Where are we going?" she asked. "I'm tired of this game of cat and mouse."

Loki said nothing, fulfilling his role of reluctant guide all too well.

Sighing, Cecilia began to pursue him through the darkness once more, trying to muffle the ringing of her heels against the smooth stone floor. They passed by several large doors that lead to rooms whose contents she could not divine, then up a narrow winding staircase, with large steps built for someone significantly taller than she.

At one point, she paused and said, "Someone may still tell her."

"It may come as a surprise to you that _she of little brain_ is not all-knowing," Loki replied, without turning or stopping. "Would it please you to go back to your yawningly dull existence?"

For a moment, Cecilia considered his words as she began to walk again. "It _is_ rather dull, isn't it?" She let out a begrudging moan. "But I only came because I was summoned to serve you."

Loki slowed his pace, growing even more intent and stealthy, until at last, they stood in front of another door left ajar. "Ah, yes!" When she flinched, he softened his tone. "You were summoned to come but not to stay."

Cecilia paused; the private distress she felt at entering was evident in her pale, clenched fists and arms held tightly at her sides, as though she fought the urge to physically recoil.

At last, Loki stepped inside and she followed, finding that their dreadful venture led but to an ordinary library. Cecilia peered into the dimly lit room before taking a small step across the threshold. She eyed the fine furnishings; the walls were covered in fine tapestries and book shelves full of leather-bound volumes. A star-scene of nine orbs floated above the hearth, where a fire crackled brightly. Rich draperies the color of wine adorned two large windows and three high-backed leather chairs faced each other in front of the fire, with a low polished table separating them.

Loki removed his dark cloak as he crossed the room, and dropped it carelessly across one of the leather chairs that was stationed behind a massive mahogany table. He then strolled casually to the hearth.

"You're not here to serve rapacious harpies wine as they bicker about marriage and politics. No, Raven, you're here for an entirely different purpose." He motioned for her to join him.

The whole scene seemed innocuous enough, but Cecilia hesitated at the sight of the fire.

She slowly moved to the chair across from him. With the firelight flickering against his skin, he easily could have been an artist's creation.

"What purpose is that?" she asked, more interested in the subject.

"I've selected a trade for you. You'll leave at sunrise for Nidavellir, the Realm of the Dwarves. You'll be trained in the forges as a weapons smith for Asgard – for _me_," he emphasized.

"I know nothing of weapons!" Cecilia cried, sounding suddenly panicked.

"You will, Raven, if you intend on honoring your oath. The dwarves will treat you well. Rough, they may be, yet their hearts are large," he said, gritting his teeth to hold back the truth. "The arrangements have been made."

Her lips parted in a faint gasp. Moisture made her eyes luminous. "But why?" The words were barely a whisper. "I can't -" She swallowed hard to keep tears from falling.

Loki looked away, eyes distant and cold. He ran a hand through his thick hair and turned his back to her. "It's been done."

A feeling of sick dread began to descend on her. She lurched forward, raking fingers through her hair. He was a scoundrel of the worst kind and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to get away from him.

"Raven." His voice, cold as ice, sent a shiver through her.

When she looked up, she saw Loki seated in the chair before her. The dark look of pity washed over his face and his fiery green eyes blazed. His gaze clung to hers for another heartbeat, before he shifted his stare down to his hands.

Garments made of rich, black Asgardian leather rested between his fingers. The attire passed, gingerly, from his hands to hers and upon first touch, they felt softer than cotton. "Am I being made into a proper looking warrior?" she asked with a subtle tremble.

A smile painted his lips. "No. You are a symbol of Asgard, now. You will honor this realm in Nidavellir by mastering your trade," Loki said triumphantly. "Will you do me this great service?"

It took a long time to speak, and even then her voice was small and tight. "I went to bed last night and you were in my dream. You saw-" She stumbled over the words so badly that she almost swallowed her tongue. She met his eyes. "You saw what I saw. The fire. The pain. You promised to help me control it. How can you do so when I'm somewhere I fear?"

"Ah, yes. I did and I will. Heed me; you needn't be afraid of the fire. It's easier for me to instruct you if we were together in the same place in your mind," he said gently, leaning in. "Let me show you."

Cecilia did as he asked, not fearful, for somehow she understood there was no danger.

Loki cupped her small face with his cool hands, wiping her tears with his thumbs before he began. "Feel my thoughts as they fold into yours. As they wrap you safe. Feel my mind as it becomes one with your own. Let what I am become part of you for a time. See as I see," he whispered.

She breathed the same breath, as she felt his mind slipping into hers as subtle and mysterious as a shadow, and holding her fast. But not as a prisoner, for within the protective cloak of his thoughts, she was still herself. And at the same time she was Loki, standing by a lake within a grove in the chill of a misty dawn, staring into the water's reflection, where a scarred face of cobalt blue with blood-red eyes greeted her.

_I am the secret at the heart of the longstanding King of Asgard. I am the island in the wild sea. I am the fire in the head of the seer. I am neither of that world nor of this. And yes, I am here. I have blood on my hands. I have loved and lost. I feel your pain, and I know your strength. _

Feeling herself changing, changing, so her mind knew only what the creature comprehended: cold, hunger, death, misery and danger. The rushing terror of transformation.

_This is how it is for me. _

Loki's thoughts released her gently, leaving her shivering and close to tears as she stepped back from the water's edge.

"I don't understand," Cecilia whispered. "Why would you choose to reveal yourself to me? I am no Asgardian."

_Maybe not. Still you have gifts. Powerful and dangerous gifts akin to my own. The power of the mind, which you have scarcely tapped as of yet. I see you in peril; I see you as a link in the chain, a link on which much depends. You must learn to harness your gifts, or they will become no more than a burden. _

"Harness them?"

_You, my Raven, are a puzzle, cryptic and misleading. Here is a place of protection; it's easier to keep control. Outside this grove, your shadows move closer. Let me show you. What is it you carry so deep in your heart? What is it you fear above all else? Look into the water. Make your mind quiet. _

Cecilia could not help glancing around to see if Loki was watching; there was no sign of him. Then she willed herself to the water's edge once more and to utter stillness. She made her breathing slow and deep, felt time and place change and settle around her.

There was a flicker of light, a flash of color in the water, and an image growing steadily clearer. The image rippled and changed. It was dark. Dark save for a small candle burning upon a dark wood nightstand. There were two men there, one sleeping, rolled in a blanket; braided hair falling back from ebony skin. The other man sat crossed-legged, with a long knife in one hand and a stone in the other. He sharpened the knife with deliberate, even strokes – one, two, three. His eyes seemed to follow the steady movement of the weapon, but he was not seeing it.

Cecilia's hand stretched out, despite herself, and she made some small sound. And at that instant, the man in the water looked up – looked up straight at her. His expression struck her to the heart: bitterness, resentment and lust. She couldn't say which was written most starkly on his features. His eyes widened in shock and slowly, very slowly, he put the knife down. He lifted his hand, reaching his patterned fingers out toward her, and Cecilia stretched her own out just a little farther, just a little more…

_Do not touch the water._

But she had, and the ripples came up again, and the familiar man's image was gone. She let out a breath and sat back into the chair with tears in her eyes, breaking the link between herself and Loki. She stared at the fire and then at him, awestruck. The landscape of the grove had vanished. His face was no longer blue and scarred. Loki's eyes were the color of light through still water, and they flooded with concern.

Slowly, Loki let his fingers slip from her face. "You'll have need of this, Raven. You must learn, while you are there, and you must do it quickly. If not, this merging of minds will be too much for you."

Cecilia gaped, almost forgetting to keep her eyes down. Was nothing secret?

"Secrets are safe there." He swept a hand along the side of his cheek. Cecilia surmised he was indicating the pale color of his skin - another guise. How did he keep track of so many?

"You saw what was shown to me?"

"Oh yes," he responded somberly. "And he saw you, have no doubt of it. But that is nothing new to him. Your image is before his eyes through every dreadful nightmare. You bound him with your fury, and now he cannot escape you, however hard he might wish it to be otherwise."

With an effort of will that clenched her jaws to white and set her body trembling, Cecilia swept her hands over her face, and her tears ceased. She was very still.

He cupped her chin and turned up her furious face. "You changed his path." Loki looked very serious, but there was no judgment in his tone.

Cecilia wasn't so comfortable with Loki's accusations, feeling a flare of anger at his words. "What do you suggest I do? Seek him out? I don't even know who he is."

"I suggest nothing. I'm simply showing you what your mind forced into hiding," he explained.

Cecilia nodded in understanding, smoothing a hand over the black, leather garments Loki had provided for her to wear in Nidavellir. "So, what are you, if you're not Asgardian?" she asked cautiously.

Loki was oddly silent as he rose to his feet. He clasped his hands behind his back and strode stiffly along, chin up, to assume his position in front of the window. "I'm the monster you fear so vehemently in your Midgardian fairy stories. A Jotun, a _Frost Giant_," he said with disgust. For a long moment, he gazed out at the striking landscape. "Only some know the truth. I cannot live in the one world or the other. I walk the margins of both. This is the doom the gods laid on me."

"It must be – it must be very hard for you," Cecilia stammered. How hard, she could scarcely imagine.

"I had a chance to change the course of events recently," he went on, disregarding the pity in her tone, "the chance to save my brother's life and to protect a realm at great risk – your realm. I took it and I'm glad that I did, though there's no telling if my choice was right or wrong. Perhaps this false rule is punishment for believing I might make a difference. The truth is; I am set outside and belong neither to one realm or another, a mere conduit."

Behind his look of tranquil resignation, his tone of calm acceptance, Cecilia sensed deep sorrow.

"I know what I would wish to see you do," he continued. "But I will not offer you advice. For now, I see you bear a heavy burden for one so small. Let me ease this for a while. Let me show you, for you will need to use this skill yourself in Nidavellir. Sit quiet. Let go of the things that trouble you."

Cecilia hesitated. "How will you ease matters for me if I'm in another realm?"

"I will come to you when the sun rises and the vermin sleep. Mark me, child. It is a guarantee."

**~o~**


	7. Chapter 7 - Trellheim

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim in the Marvel franchise. However the original plots are owned by me.

* * *

_**Chapter 7 – Trellheim**_

In the deepest dungeon of Asgard, dark as death, where no sunlight penetrated by day and no lamps were lit at night, Loki looked sadly at the crumpled, broken figure that lay before him upon the foul bed. At the man's bedside, the great wolf-beast, Fenrir Lokisson, strained his full strength against his leash, snapping the chain taunt; but it did not break. As The God of Mischief emerged from the shadows, he shot the beast a strong, commanding stare, immediately quelling its whines.

Tenderly, Loki ran his fingers through his wolf-son's fur, feeling the hard ridges of the scar tissue that ran across Fenrir's left shoulder. Marks of the past they were, a tangible reminder of Loki's debt to his son – now paid. The wolf sat on his haunches and leaned against Loki's side. Fenrir was big enough that, even sitting, his head was level to Loki's chest.

"Dearest Father," Loki began, in a soft tone. "Grant me the fortitude to bear your burdens as king, without the curiosity to act upon evil." Gently, he rested a hand on Odin's shoulder; though the All-Father did not stir as his Odinsleep was deep and profound, Loki knew that he could hear every word. "Feed me my daily portion of hate and distrust and change me into what you wanted most: a monster. I am of my own flesh, bleeding inside myself, carrying on my shoulders the depravities of all those I've slaughtered."

After a brief time of reflection, Loki continued, "Suffer me to depart from this accursed palace; millions of worlds would not tempt me to venture on such an act. Had these wretched victims of presumption calmly awaited their fate, the blow would have descended, and though their grief would have been poignant, time would have mellowed it into a pleasing melancholy. Now every hour of your continued existence is embittered; every closing day but bringing them all nearer to that last, _fatal _one."

"_Ragnarök,"_the God of Mischief whispered, looking solemn. When Fenrir looked into Loki's eyes, a light flickered in the darkness inside his master. "My heart was the one thing I gave all my strength to guarding. Without it there was no existence, yet within it, there were dark secrets that were slowly destroying me. Hope can extract gold from dross, honey from poison; I still recall how she lit up this dungeon with the beaming rays of felicity, and without her, this palace is immersed in the dark shades of gloom and wretchedness."

Reaching down, Loki removed Fenrir's collar and the wolf panted happily; his tongue lolling out one side of his mouth as if he were a big dog; his eyes were half-closed as Loki's hand scratched the base of his ear.

"You are truly the most powerful and malicious enemy I've ever known, and soon my hand will rush your execution, so that I may end my misery by accomplishing my greatest triumph. Peace, peace, my father, into submission."

**~o~**

The next morning, a pale fog filled the canyons and valleys throughout Nidavellir's gray range as Loki and Cecilia rode on horseback across the barren plain. With a hunter's instinct, the black wolf-beast, Fenrir, followed close behind along a narrow path beside the burn. Fenrir ran, side by side, their horse's hooves striking the ground in a steady beat, while his own feet made no sound. The wolf could have outrun them easily, but he did not.

No tree, no scrub, nothing interrupted the flat yellow plain of dead grass, except for the treacherous peaks that towered defiantly above the mist, tips raised toward the evening sun. Slowly, as if afraid of the great blades of rock, the sun sank in the sky, bathing the Northern plains in a warning red light.

No Midgardian being had ever settled in Nidavellir. In fact, few men – from the beginning of time – had ever endeavored to cross the realm's barren plains. Only a handful of gods had come that way.

The most outstanding feature of the realm was the wind. It rose in the morning just after daybreak, building from a barely audible whisper to a deafening roar. They couldn't open their eyes or hear one another above the ruffling, roaring and rattling in their ears all day long.

They forged ahead into the deafening howl, only occasionally peering out from behind their high leather collars to see if the other was close by.

By dusk, the wind finally came to an end.

The solitary symbol of Asgard grew tired of chewing the grit of dust that hovered in the air, and unhooked a leather pouch from her belt, pouring cool water down her parched throat. A few drops spilled out of the corners of her mouth, flowing through her black hair. Elegant braids, the work of untold hours, hung from her head and rested on her chest like delicate cords. A bitter northerly wind whistled around the mountaintops, gusting through the weaving of her hair.

"Is it always this cold?" Cecilia asked, glancing at Fenrir over her shoulder. The wolf shook the dust from his tail.

Loki grinned. "You'll grow accustomed to it."

Miles ahead, along the base of distant white mountains, stood two vast slabs of solid rock, erected by the god and creator of the dwarves, to stem the tide of those foolish enough to attempt an invasion of Nidavellir. For some, the sight of the imposing gateway was not enough of a deterrent for some; bleached bones and twisted scraps of armor were all that remained of them.

"Where are the dwarves?" Cecilia asked, looking ahead toward the grand edifice of remains.

"Underground. A dwarf's life is comprised of eating, sleeping, drinking and making a lot of noise. Night comes early to the caves. Be wary, Raven. The young and inexperienced are always the first to fall." His eyes stole a quick glance at the weapon at her side.

Cecilia replaced the pouch and took her weapon from her belt. The steel sword rang melodiously against its sheath, carved like the rest of the stronghold from the mountain's flesh. A ray of sunlight glowed red on the polished inscriptions, illuminating the runs and symbols that promised protection, a sure aim, and long life to its bearer. She eyed the Asgardian endowment for a moment, before sliding the blade back in its casing.

Loki turned to the north: his green eyes swept the mountain pass, thirty paces across, that led from the Outer Lands to the Great Watchtower of Nidavellir.

Unable to wrest her eyes from the distant fog, Cecilia asked, "What's out there?"

"More bloodshed and more death," Loki muttered, looking down at Sheipnir's dark mane. "Rumor has reached me that the fog bewitches and infects the mind."

"A rumor?" Cecilia leaned back into her saddle, cupping her hand over her brow to shade her eyes from the bright red sunset. "Trying to scare me again?" she asked, her tone flat, almost dull.

"Perhaps one day, I just might." Loki turned to her, smiling wickedly. "In times gone by, kings had dispatched adventurers in all directions of the Outer Lands. No one knew what lay there," Loki revealed, commencing his tale in an eerie tone. "The expeditions were rarely fruitful and the few who returned to the gates brought orcs in their wake."

"Orcs?" Cecilia's brow furrowed. Her imagination began to conjure the images of strange, ugly beings attempting to raid the underground halls of the dwarf kingdom.

Loki nodded. His tongue traced a line along his lips before he continued. "A thousand would have been too few. Outwardly, they resemble the elves: tall, slim, and graceful, but as warriors they're savage and ruthless. The beasts learned nothing from their defeats. Their vicious, choleric minds compelled them to throw themselves against the dwarves' defenses. They were bent on destroying anyone and anything in their path for their creator had made them that way."

He looked at her, eyes glimmering as he realized his account held her unswerving attention. "Raging and screaming, the beasts would scale the walls." Loki's tone became more passionate. "From the first tinges of dawn until the setting of the sun, armor would be cleaved from flesh, and flesh from bone. A tide of crimson gore would lap against the impregnable gates," he paused there, crinkling his nose in disgust, then flashing a smile as Cecilia followed suit, "while battering rams shattered as they hit the stone. Though they suffered casualties, they were dwarves, Nidavellir's staunchest defenders."

"And yet they were almost defeated," she retorted with a hint of sarcasm.

Loki raised a gloved hand, quelling her skepticism. "_Almost_," he emphasized, smirking. "Spilled blood and filth – that was the perfume of orcs – mixed in with the rancid odor of their greasy armor. You see, they basted their bodies with fat, believing that the dwarvian axes would slither over their armor and leave them unharmed. Fools! No amount of fat would save them."

He glowered from under his brow. "Then the unthinkable happened. With a shudder, the first of the door's five bolts shot open. The gateway quaked. Someone had spoken the incantation with the intent of delivering the dwarves into the clutches of the invading hordes."

"Lies!" Cecilia gasped. "Who would do such a thing to their own people?"

"Do not fall victim to the folly of loyalty. Dwarves turn on one another just like men and gods," Loki advised in a harsh tone. "Alone, the dwarf traitor was standing by the door, lips moving, hands raised in supplication. His comrades' shouts fell on deaf ears as the second lock creaked back, illuminated by runes."

"So the dwarf was bewitched by the fog?" Cecilia asked inquisitively, though she already knew the answer.

Loki nodded. "Time is against us. You have no choice but to learn how to control your thoughts in this realm."

"And what happened to the traitor?"

"Beheaded," he said, slicing a hand across his neck, "before the final bolt shot open. The only proper way to dispose of a defector."

"That's a terrible story." Cecilia sighed. "Volstagg tells better stories than you."

"Oh, you _wound_ me! I take offence to that! How could you compare me to that glutinous boor?" Loki smirked ever so slightly as a wide grin appeared on Cecilia's face. "Besides, it is fact, not fable. Do you think it cruel?"

"Yes." Cecilia nodded, absently knotting the leather reigns of her palfrey between her fingers. "I pray that they've outgrown their brutality."

A true, pure laugh escaped the god's lips. "You have much to learn, Raven."

"How do you know all these facts?" She asked, raising a prying brow. "Did your father tell you?"

Loki let out a long-suffering breath. "When you've toiled away much of your life reading as many ancient texts as I, you'll swiftly come to realize what is true, what is myth, and what is ruse. I've ventured to this realm once before. Once was enough." His face looked troubled. "My fath – Odin," he corrected himself quickly, "thought that I was mad to live in the darkness, when I could have the sun and stars."

Cecilia glanced at him sideways. "But you're fond of it here."

"In spite of myself, yes, I suppose I am."

They neared the gate where skulls of horses hung over the broken homes of a village tucked away among the rock of the narrow mountain valley. The slanting rays of the western sun imparted a glow to the scene that was belied by the shallow graves on the lower slope. Marks painted hastily on the stone walls around the village indicated that a great sickness had struck, and many dwarves had died.

"The rest had probably fled to the caves," Loki said to Cecilia as they drew up.

Cecilia glanced at the bones and the stone buildings with their plank-shingled roofs. With growing dread, she held the hilt of her sword and whispered to the runes. "Don't abandon me now."

"These horses have carried us far enough." Loki dismounted, running his palm along Sheipnir's neck. The horse neighed and tossed its head. "Do you remember all that I've told you?" Loki asked, looking toward the mouth of the cave that opened into the hillside. There were torches already there.

Cecilia nodded and dismounted, looking at him with a troubled expression. She had never been good at hiding her emotions. "Is there another path?" he calmly asked, already knowing the answer.

"This is the quickest way to the forges," Loki insisted. "This is your road."

Cecilia felt a deep sense of foreboding. She stopped, hesitating, trying to see inside the cave that she was afraid to enter. "I don't think I can do this," she finally admitted, looking deeply into Loki's eyes as he turned to her. Cecilia hoped that he would understand how genuinely fearful she was of what lay ahead for her.

"What do you see?" Loki asked, furrowing his brow. "Do you fear the dwarves?"

Cecilia shook her head. "No." She went to stand by Loki's side. Fenrir strode beside her, and when she stopped, he stopped, too. She rested a tentative hand on the wolf's back. "I don't fear the dwarves. I fear the ghosts of my past. Once I'm inside, I don't know how long my sanity will last."

"Fenrir will be with you. Whatever you face in there, you won't face it alone." Fenrir bowed his great back, stretched his forelegs out and yawned, turning to Loki, whose mouth formed something of a smile.

Gently, Loki took one of Cecilia's hands in his, and in her palm he placed the emerald green spool of thread and the golden thimble. "And I will return for you. We have much work to do."

They stood outside the cave for a long time, Cecilia, the wolf and Loki. Then Fenrir rose and trotted into the cavern, and in the hollow heart of the night, as stars chased the moon across the skies, Cecilia took up a torch and stepped through the maw of the cave into the silence that waited beyond.

**~o~**

The warren delved until no air moved at the bottom of its passages. The way was older, and strange dwarvish writings and decorations were worked deeper in the rock of the gateways and walls. The plunging pathway was narrow, running between high, rudely piled walls of loose stones, thrown up by the ancient inhabitants, for a purpose they doubtlessly understood themselves.

The passage, however, soon widened again, and Cecilia could hear the far-off murmur of a waterfall, whose wild pattering sound – like that of heavy rain ringing echoes throughout the cave – grew louder as they approached. Although the light of her torch illuminated most of their surroundings, there still seemed to be unseen shadows. Monsters, waiting around the corners – waiting for their chance to attack.

And yet, she was a monster herself, guilty of murder. What manner of cave-dwelling beast could she truly have to fear? She'd been asked hundreds of times if she knew the truth of the fire. She did not, she had replied with dishonesty. She knew – or believed she knew – how it was started, but she kept the thought to herself. There had been enough talk about her.

Time would even things out, she believed.

Yet, after two years, the truth of it mattered very little to the world, for the ash of it had long blown away and weeds and scrub trees had taken root where the inn had been.

The land was healed.

Her mother was dead.

She was in Nidavellir.

Even though Cecilia knew she was safe with Fenrir, at least at the moment, she could not help the fear and claustrophobia burning in her stomach. She tried not to let it show, but the anxiety she felt wouldn't go away.

Down the corridor, something flashed, a bright fleck of color, a glimmer like firelight on armor or jewelry. Cecilia glanced over her shoulder at Fenrir, who was crouched down, eyes narrowed, ready to attack.

"Go, then," she said, and the wolf went down into the darkness in pursuit of whatever had fled.

It wasn't a long chase. Cecilia stuck to Fenrir's side like a burr in his thick barred coat, almost not recognizing the wolf in the frothing, raging creature that could rear up and battled dwarves from fang to ax, who was capable of slaughter like a lion tearing into a wildebeest.

They had brought the shadowy creature to bay against a doorway, when it leaped sideways and pulled out what resembled a spear, aiming it at Cecilia.

She rolled, instinct moving her while rational thought stared blankly, but before she could get to her feet, the spear came down: hard, fast, pinning her shoulder. Most of what it pierced was cloth and leather, but not all. Her torch fell and guttered, but did not quite go out.

Blinking against the pain, Cecilia looked up. She found herself regarding, from not a very great distance, a thin, bony face with a jutting nose, curling, tufted eyebrows, heavy sideburns and a mass of elf-locked hair in which metal and jewels gleamed, catching and reflecting the torchlight like stars. It tilted it head to one side to look at her, eyes small and bright.

Then it said, in a high harsh voice like the wind howling, "Is this your beast?"

Cecilia realized, after a moment's blankness, that it wasn't talking to her. It was talking to Fenrir, who was frozen by the wall, hesitating, she thought, because the weird gnarled little person with the spear was bent so close to her throat. Fenrir growled, low and soft, and coiled himself like a springing snake.

"I'm not a beast," Cecilia said, moving her left arm up to seize the shaft of the spear. Luckily, it hadn't pinned through flesh or caught bone, and that was good.

The creature cocked its head from Cecilia's face to the spear, the beads in its ratted locks chiming like crystal, and then leaned down into her face. Its weight on the spear ripped a gasp of pain out of Cecilia's throat.

"Not a beast, you say?" There were harmonics in its voice, under and overtones, like the far-flung challenge of a wolf's howl. It rang along Cecilia's nerves like the bright clatter of the beads in its hair. "And yet you come following your master, the wolf-king, into the dark under like a _good _beast, and I see him as ready to defend you as if you were his cub. What then are you, if not a beast, who speaks with only half a tongue?"

_Half a tongue_. She thought it was a threat at first, and then she realized it meant her own voice, her speech. "I am the Raven."

"Raven?" It blinked, a big, froggy blink for such sharp little eyes. "You're no wolf-child." It backed away, though, freeing the blade of its spear from Cecilia's shoulder with a jerk that left her eyesight blurry. Small droplets of blood spilled down her chest under her leathers. Fenrir was instantly beside her, whining, trying to nose the wound as the bent little man retreated. Cecilia got her first good look at its weapon, and at the metal and silver ornaments on its leather apron. The craftsmanship was foreign, beautiful.

"Is this Nidavellir?" Cecilia said, in a shocked breath.

"No," it said, and crouched back on its ropy haunches, balancing against the planted butt of the spear, its torch held casually in its left hand. "You've come to Trellheim. Nidavellir is deeper still."

Using Fenrir as a prop, Cecilia sat. Her sword lay beside her. The creature's spear had three times the reach, and it wasn't at any kind of disadvantage. She left the sword where it was and used her hand to staunch her wound. She had no idea what the proper form of address would be, so she guessed. "What's your name, then, Master of Trellheim?"

The little man smiled, showing jagged teeth that glittered like jewels. "No Mastersmith yet," it said. "I am called Tin, of the smith's guild and the Iron Kinship. If you say you're not a beast, then you must be man."

"According to some," Cecilia answered, and then looked up and tipped her head at her host. "I am here on behalf of Asgard; my name you have."

"Asgard?" Tin nodded. "And what brings you to Trellheim, Raven of Asgard?"

"I've come to forge weapons."

"Ah!" That smile again, the glitter of teeth, the chime of beaded elf-locks as it – as _Tin_ – half-scuttled, half-hopped forward. "Excellent!"

**~o~**


	8. Chapter 8 – Sovereignty

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim in the Marvel franchise. However the original plots are owned by me.

* * *

**_Chapter 8 – Sovereignty_**

**L**oki watched as Raven disappeared through the mouth of the cavern, yet she remained a growing presence in the back of his mind, a force to be reckoned with. He was confident that his raven, like every other mage, master and clever adversary he had ever encountered, would be more vulnerable than ever. A great longing stirred her, but a longing so purposeless, so undefined, that it spent itself with its own emotion.

A river of adrenaline roared through Sheipnir. The stallion tossed his head and his muscles bunched as he gathered himself to race back down the trail toward Asgard. Loki reined him in, quickly but gently, allowing him to go forward a few more steps, and then pulled him to a stop.

Loki turned in his saddle and looked back toward the sloped hillside, thinking.

The God of Mischief shook his head. His veil of the False Odin and his magic had been the ultimate and undefeatable force until now. It was his power and there could be no doubt about its supreme effectiveness and his ability to wield it without opposition. Fear in one hand and promises in the other; minds were made pliable and responsive by his spell.

That was the secret in maintaining control.

It was so _easy_.

Though inferior, the dwarves were very clever, and Loki continued to marvel at the diabolical minds that had invented the weapons of Asgard. They had supplied him with whatever he'd needed to control his realm for both his needs and theirs, yet they continued to hold back the heavy armaments and more modern weaponry. And until that state of affairs changed, he would remain at their mercy, which was unacceptable for a god of his standing.

He would have to force them to deal with him as an equal power - as someone with the key to thwarting their intentions just as he would thwart Odin's.

The Raven was bound to him, and as the source of everything she feared and wanted; he would reward her. And his gift to her would be a bit of the same power he wielded, but she would have to fight the onslaught on her senses – the heaviness behind her eyes, the need to cling to him, the weakness that made her bones turn to water – with the only weapon she possessed, her formidable self-control.

As the rhythmic sound of wind gusted through the night, Loki took a deep breath, feeling fury pierce his heart, shifting the shadows hidden deep within his soul. He had stifled the thoughts of slaying his father, but kept them in his heart, like a fire that burns underground, churning and insidiously smoldering, until it eroded his core.

_It isn't time yet. _His thoughts came with a venomous anger.

As for his little raven, she'd surprised him with her power and she would be his leverage in obtaining the dwarves' secrets. She would be his pawn, and with her, he would taint his father's glory, tarnish his great trust, and overturn his counsels and his rule.

It was, indeed, remarkable how one well-placed gambit could penetrate every illusion, every exotic move, and every stratagem – not to mention the flesh behind them.

Impatiently, Sheipnir tossed his head again, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring. Gathering the reins, Loki urged the eight-legged beast back toward the trail. He leaned forward and abruptly dug his heels into the horse's sides. Sheipnir reared, then gathered himself and leaped through the darkness, racing back to Asgard.

**~o~**

"I had no intention of hurting you. I came looking for the trolls that have been raiding our homes and killing our men." Tin said carefully, gesturing with his spear for Cecilia to rise. She managed it, clinging to Fenrir's ruff, and Tin did not comment when she bent down woozily and retrieved her sword.

"How unfortunate for you that the trolls are already gone," Cecilia said empathetically.

"Or perhaps it is fortunate, since you and your wolf-king will live to fight again, and I do not think it would be so if the warrens had been full."

Tin gestured Cecilia along the corridor, and she, with a longing glance toward the tunnel she and Fenrir had scrambled down, went. There was no way Fenrir could go back up that slope, and – frankly – she doubted her own ability to make it with only one working arm, even if Tin would let her try.

"Where did they go? The trolls." Cecilia asked.

Tin shrugged. "Out of their warrens. I care not where."

"Why out of their warrens? Why into the fog?"

The torch in Tin's hand sent his shadow leaping before him. Cecilia had to duck and crouch, one arm slung over Fenrir's shoulder for support, in order to enter the tunnel Tin's spear-jerks were indicating. She turned back over her wounded shoulder to get a look at the dwarf behind her.

"Because we drive them out," Tin replied, and rattled the butt of his spear encouragingly against the wall. "And take their warrens for our own."

"Oh," Cecilia said. And again, "Why?"

A strange noise. Laughter? "In sooth, you are no beast, for such unflagging curiosity can only belong to creatures that are awake, whether half tongue or no." And she was uneasily aware that those words: _awake _and _half tongue_, meant something to the dwarves that they did not mean to her. "But those reasons, Raven of Asgard, are not mine to tell you, even if I wished to."

"Where are you taking me?" Cecilia asked after a moment. The tunnel was sloping down again, and she could not help remembering what Tin had said about Trellheim and Nidavellir.

"To the –" Tin said a word Cecilia did not know, and the strange harmonics of the dwarf's voice made it impossible for her even to guess at its meaning. Cecilia glanced over her shoulder inquiringly, and Tin hissed through his jeweled teeth and said, "The … Master Harrier, I suppose you might say. Our leader."

Cecilia shuddered.

"We are a small people, Raven of Asgard. We rely on cunning, where trolls rely on strength. And men, apparently, rely on wolves."

"We do not have tunnels to retreat to," Cecilia said, feeling a vague sense of defensiveness on behalf of her race.

"No, you live on the skin of the earth, yes? Or so I was told as a child."

"Yes," Cecilia said, a little uncertainly.

"And the bright goddesses watch you always?" Tin sounded genuinely curious.

"The bright goddesses?" Cecilia shook her head, not understand his meaning.

"Yes, yes!" Tin thought for a moment, gesturing upward. "The ones that hang in the sky."

"The sun and moon, you mean? Yes, I suppose so."

"The world is full of marvels," Tin said. "You will want to watch your head, I believe, for you are much taller, and although it is shameful to delve in haste, sometimes it is also necessary."

Cecilia, who was already bent almost double, was about to say that watching her head more closely would require a second pair of eyes, when the hand she held in front of her for precisely that purpose jarred hard against a lump of rock hanging down from the ceiling of the tunnel like a tooth. She couldn't quite bite back a yelp.

"Ah, copper ore, you see," Tin said, not quite apologetically, but as one who realized that strange creatures might not understand the natural and obvious. "We haven't time to mine the vein properly now, and it would be waste more shameful than haste to discard it in the rubble."

"Of course," Cecilia said politely and proceeded from there with even greater caution.

What they found beyond the stricture in the passage was a cavern perhaps the size of her bedroom in Stuttgart, and a dozen or so dwarves gathered around a fire that flickered hot and ghostly close to the coals.

"Fellows," Tin said, standing aside as more than one of his companions laid hands on their weapons. "May I present Raven of Asgard, and the wolf-king, Fenrir."

The dwarves tipped their heads, birdlike, to look at Cecilia, first with one eye and then the other. She could see now, in the better light, that they had long arms in proportion to their low stature. She could not tell the length of their legs, but she wondered if their lack of height was more a matter of twisted backbones. Certainly their reach – as one stretched a hand out, beckoning imperiously, with jewels gleaming on its hand – was frightening. "Come closer to the light, creature."

Fenrir regarded them all with lively interest, and Cecilia knew that_ creature_ had been directed at her. She swallowed hard against a mixture of indignation and anxiety, and stepped forward.

"So," said the dwarf who had spoken. "We have heard your racket echoing down through the trellwarren and wondered what manner of beast it was that sang it so." And again, _sing_ did not mean what Cecilia was accustomed to it meaning.

Tin coughed and said, "Not beast. She said she is man."

Eyebrows went up around the circle, rendering the dwarves faces even more grotesque in the firelight. "There have not been men seen near Nidavellir since my mother's mother's time," said one of the other dwarves. "What brings you north then, creature, or do you but follow where your master leads?"

"He is not my master," Cecilia said carefully, "any more than I am his master. He is my sentinel. And he and I came to these mountains to forge weapons. I did not know that Nidavellir lay further below."

"Then where did you imagine it to lie?" Cecilia could not tell if their curiosity was honest, as Tin's had been, or if they mocked her.

"You say men have not been seen near Nidavellir since your grandmother's time," Cecilia said, with a bow to the dwarf that had so spoken. "There have been more generations of men than that since we last had any knowledge of the dwarves. I knew you – before today – only in stories."

"As it should be," another dwarf said. This one, she thought, was older than the others; it had something of an old man's querulousness. "We want nothing to do with man."

"Yes. Why did you bring it down here, Tin?"

"The wolf-king would hardly have stirred without her," Tin said, unperturbed by the note of accusation. "And it is true, as she says, that she is here to forge weapons. The warren below us leads to the House of Sindri."

That seemed to please them, if she was hearing the harmonics of their mutterings correctly.

"We want no men in our delvings," the old dwarf said stridently over the others. "Just because the creature is from Asgard, doesn't mean it's a friend."

"I do not wish to be an enemy," Cecilia said, and that made them all laugh.

"With the wolf-king at your side, we find it difficult to believe you," said the dwarf whom she had tentatively identified as the jarl. It cocked its head at her. "Though we would believe you more readily if you would put down your sword."

Cecilia hesitated only a moment before complying. The odds against her were not substantially worse without the sword, and Fenrir still seems content to sit and observe. They might care little for her, but she thought they would not kill her in the face of Fenrir's obvious favor.

The jarl leaned sideways – that terrifying reach again – and picked up the sword, turning it over in his long, knob-knuckled hands. "Sons of Ivaldi. Primitive," he said, "though I imagine those smiths do the best they can, given what they have to work with."

A bright look under eyebrows; trying to pretend the throbbing wound on her shoulder didn't trouble her at all, Cecilia replied, "No smith of Asgard would dream of competing with the dwarves. That much, our stories have taught us."

That pleased them, and the dwarf holding the sword said, "I am called Ori, son of Gror." It seemed to be a cue, or a decision, or something that Cecilia could not read, for the others named themselves as well: Mica, Flint, Nari, Kili – even the cantankerous old dwarf grudgingly admitted his name to be Shale.

Cecilia bowed and asked the question now urgently uppermost in her mind: "Tell me, Masters, what will you do with me?"

That occasioned some muttering back and forth. Ori seemed to be in charge, judging by the way his long pointed ears flickered under his hair as the other dwarves spoke in turn, Cecilia felt more confident in thinking of him as the jarl. Earrings clattered one on the other, and Cecilia wondered how the dwarves ever managed to sneak up on anything. She waited with concealed impatience while they discussed her, worried about her new masters and what they would think when she did not appear.

At last, Ori straightened from his huddle with the other dwarves. "We aren't certain it is safe to let you go down into Nidavellir," he admitted, shrugging. His long, broad hands made wings in the darkness. "But we cannot very well keep you here until the last cold comes down on us all." The dwarf blinked at Cecilia shrewdly, long upswept strawberry-blond eyebrows gliding together over the top of a whittled-looking nose. "What do you think we should do?"

"We should let her go." Cecilia and Ori both glanced at Tin at once, startled.

"She's in the wolf-king's pack," Tin said reasonably. "Her word is, no doubt, good. I will accompany them down to the forges."

Raised eyebrows, thoughtful mutterings. Glances traded between the dwarves, and more of that musical muttering. "But it's seen Trellheim," Shale said. "It's seen our tunnel…" Ori was nodding, sagely, sadly.

Cecilia's hands went cold with fear and she felt Fenrir rumble – not out loud yet, but thinking about it. They would fight if they had to. And yet, she gathered that they did not particularly wish to kill her; they were not, she thought, a warlike people, for all their fearsome weaponry. And she understood then that they were frightened, and even why.

"I will bring no harm upon you," she said, interrupting their debate. "I swear this by Fenrir's strength and my own honor."

"You will not speak of us to others of your own kind?" asked Shale.

"I will not. I promise." And part of her mind asked her how she thought she was going to hide such a thing from Loki, but she pushed the thought away. She would think of something.

Another colloquy, muttered, crashing. Ori stopped it with a brusque sideways sweep of his long hand. "Enough. This creature has done us no harm, and I do not want its blood-guilt. It was brave enough to go rooting deep in the Trellheim warren, and it companions a wolf-king, and _he_, I believe, we can all trust?" Said with deep irony and the other dwarves winced and nodded.

Then Ori regarded her. "If I am wrong in my estimation of you, Raven of Asgard, do not mistake, your death will be spoken of in hushed and trembling whispers for centuries to come."

Cecilia believed it. "You are not wrong," she said, meeting Ori's strange, bright eyes.

Ori nodded. "Good, then. Your sword." The long arm extended, spinning the sword to present Cecilia with its hilt. "Tin, you brought the creature in; you had best take it out. And do something about its bleeding."

"Come along, Raven," Tin said, not unkindly. "Are you hungry?"

Fenrir came to his feet, yawned mightily, and shook himself. Cecilia bowed awkwardly to the dwarves around the fire and turned to follow Tin. "No, thank you, sir."

Tin laughed, and the noise made her shiver. "I am no 'sir,' if I understand the word correctly. I told you. I am a member of the smith's guild – not yet a master. I rate no honor in your speech." Tin gestured her through a narrow doorway and into a small room which had been painstakingly hollowed out around a fountain, clear water rising from a cleft in the rock, a bench-like shelf around the walls.

"I beg pardon," Cecilia said quietly, feeling heat in her face.

"Sit down, Raven of Asgard."

Cecilia sat, propping her sword beside her, and Tin nimbly hopped up to crouch beside her. "You are female." Tin said thoughtfully, as if tasting the word and finding it not entirely to his liking.

"Yes." She said, looking at him sidelong, her eyebrows rising.

Tin bared his teeth at her; she hoped it was meant as a smile. "Remove your shoulder guards and let me repair the damage I have done."

Cecilia obeyed him, and he clicked his tongue against the roof of her mouth the same way her mother did when faced with spectacular bruises from her childhood. "It does not need stitching, and that is good, for it would be hard to explain to your masters, would it not?"

He cocked his head, and Cecilia realized he was teasing her. "It would," she said. Fenrir thumped his head down across her lap with a resigned sigh.

"Does he often have to sit with you while you are repaired?" Tin asked.

"I doubt he's sat with anyone before me. Maybe I give him peace."

"Neither wolves nor men are creatures of peace," Tin affirmed. He took a folded square of linen out of a pouch at his belt, reached a long arm to dip it in the fountain, and then wiped her shoulder briskly. Cecilia set her teeth and did not yelp at the coldness of the water.

"I am sorry that I injured you," Tin said. "But I did not want to kill you before I knew what you were." He shrugged which was a remarkable gesture on a creature as bony and gnarled as a dwarf.

Cecilia nodded. She understood.

"It does not seem to be a serious wound, at least." Cecilia tipped her head awkwardly and saw that he was right; it was more of a scratch but not by a great deal. It was no longer bleeding and wouldn't even leave a scar when it healed.

Whatever he dressed it with stung. He gave her a little pot of some herb-smelling unguent, and Cecilia recognized the texture of beeswax when she dipped a finger into it. "You keep bees underground?"

Tin laughed like the tinkle of cracked crystal. "No, don't be childish. Within the mountains there's a valley, warmed by the breath of Mimir, where water grows so hot under the earth that it boils and steams in pools and fountains. We of Nidavellir alone know the way."

"So you don't turn into stone at the first touch of sunlight?" she asked, then flushed at how she sounded like such an ignorant savage.

"Sunlight. Oh, the bright goddess. Ah, no," he said, as if he did not find his answer peculiar. "We do not. Although we don't like it much better than the trolls do, to tell you true. Fortunately, we are more cunning than they." He sighed. "Come along, Raven of Asgard, and I will show you a tunnel that does not run so steep."


	9. Chapter 9 - The Realm Below

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim in the Marvel franchise. However, the original plots are owned by me.

* * *

_**Chapter 9 – The Realm Below**_

Tin led Cecilia down a dank corridor toward the sound of hammers venting their fury on solid rock. They descended lower and lower, Fenrir slinking now as if he were as oppressed by the weight of stone and earth above them as Cecilia was; and she could almost feel his irritated growls, although he never made a sound.

Tin said, "The trolls have not quite this shared mind that the wolves seem to possess but it is also a saying among my people that what one troll knows, all trolls know. Eventually we will not be able to proceed unnoticed no matter what we do; but in the meantime, when we encounter trolls, the more quickly they can be killed, the better." He stopped and placed his large hand on her shoulder, advising, "Never follow a running troll."

Cecilia nodded, understanding.

Suddenly Tin gripped Cecilia's hand. "I fear we've been detected," he said, turning his head. Then he froze, keeping absolutely still as stone.

"Tin," Cecilia whispered, with commendable calm, "I thought your friends decided not to kill us."

"Not friends. Trolls," Tin said. "If they can use weapons as well as we can make them, they will be terrors in a fight. And it stands to reason they'd know more about trellwarrens than we do." His meandering crook-lipped smile turned into a frown. "I have condemned you."

"I chose to be here," Cecilia hissed.

"I rolled the bones and lost." Tin smiled, and Cecilia recognized the copper and silver tracery that inlaid his teeth. "Now we must fight."

As the group pressed on with their downward descent, they encountered two solitary trolls. The first Fenrir took down almost before anyone else had seen it. Tin bowed and said, "Thank you wolf-king."

The second turned to flee, but died on the point of Tin's spear. Fenrir and Cecilia shared a glance; it would not do to forget how horribly strong the dwarf's ropy, gnarled limbs were, no matter that Tin's head did not even come up to Cecilia's shoulder.

"Come," Tin said. "Our luck cannot run clean much longer."

Indeed, two cramped, steep switchbacks later, they came upon what was clearly a picket: six trolls. And while five stood their ground, the sixth ran, making a high-pitched ghastly ululation as it went.

"That's the alarm!" Tin said. "It is war!" And he disemboweled the two largest of trolls, while Fenrir took down the third and fourth, leaving the fifth to Cecilia.

The troll approached her treacherously. "The end is coming. Can you feel it?" Its voice – rough as an old washboard.

She forced a breath into her now tight chest. The troll cocked its head to the side as if listening to her response. Evidently, her silence wasn't going to convince it she wasn't there.

"I grow tired of playing with you." It chuckled and twisted its torso, snarling and flashing its sharp teeth. Cecilia's heart skipped a beat at the primal display. No longer the predator, she was now the prey. At least she was smart enough to realize it.

The troll's eyes flickered red in the fading light. "You are different than the others. You are female, aren't you?"

A smile curved the edge of her mouth.

The troll began to rise to its full height, all arms and legs with a compact body in between. Her eyes locked on the arms that hung just short of touching the ground. Wicked talons decorated each crooked finger.

"I was here long before the dwarves. This is my territory and everything in it belongs to me." It thrust its chin forward, daring her to argue.

Cecilia summoned her courage, attempting to keep from being overwhelmed with fear and the rush of hot wind in her face within the corridor of horrors. She needed all of her senses working if she was going to escape. Standing her ground, she gathered her strength and placed a hand on the hilt of her sword, ready to draw. The battle was going to hurt, she just knew it. The troll watched, waiting for her to come toward it.

Without warning, the beast lunged at her, swinging one of its massive arms like a scythe. Ducking under the arm, Cecilia rolled to the right before coming to her knees. But she hadn't put enough distance between herself and the troll. It snapped its head forward and grabbed her shoulders, sinking its claws deep into her flesh.

Pure, white hot agony flared through her chest and down her arms. Panic rolled through her in waves. Blood poured from her wounds, staining the ground a horrible vibrant crimson.

Cecilia's breath caught in her throat. She came to the startling realization that if she didn't kill the troll; it was going to kill her. Slowly, her senses dulled and she felt a torrent of power building uncontrollably within her again, flowing through her veins like warm liqueur.

Her thoughts turned dark and there was a roaring in her ears, loud and insistent. For a moment, she attempted to push the rage down, down deep. If Tin knew what she was capable of doing, they would lock her away in the deepest dungeon of Nidavellir. But, it was too late; she couldn't escape it. It ached and begged her for release.

_Breathe_.

She heard the word as a soft whisper in her ear, and Loki's voice slipped through her mind in the same way a robe would slip over her skin, as smooth as a caress – intimate.

_Breathe_.

As if warm air from a mouth was breathed into her ear. As if his lungs moved for her lungs. She tried to concentrate, tried to gather her strength, but that single word disturbed her.

_Breathe_.

It whispered through her body, swam in her blood, and spread insidiously to her heart.

_Breathe._

Once Cecilia opened her eyes, she felt fierce and whole, wild and alive, powerful and free.

When she exhaled, the tunnel shook. Lanterns floated away from the walls and stones hovered high above her head. With her next inhalation, Cecilia summoned an indiscernible force to propel the suspended objects at the troll.

The beast bellowed as its fur was set ablaze from lantern fire; the troll released its wide-eyed prey by default. Cecilia dropped to the ground as the beast shielded its visage from each impact.

A yell tore through the clearing seconds before a black blur flew through the air and landed on the troll's back.

_Fenrir. _

The wolf snarled, growled and shook his head as the troll danced around the tunnel, trying to extinguish the fire that was burning through its fur.

_Breathe_.

It came again as a soft, gentle command in her mind. A caress she felt on her skin, a stroke she felt in her hair. Air moved through her lungs, and her heart found the steady natural beat of his.

_I see what you see._

Cecilia came fully back into her mind, realizing what had happened, and what she caused. Her arms hung limp and useless by her sides. Pain burned through her wounds and her head swam. She swallowed the acid down, sucked in crisp cool air. She crawled backward along the rock wall, fists clenched so hard her knuckles were white.

Evidently, she didn't understand the tremendous bond between her mind and Loki's. She felt what he felt. She could almost see the black, volcanic thoughts swirling in his mind to match the dark violence churning in his soul. Loki's dark examination of her mind was the most intimate thing she had ever experienced. He was dangerous, far more than she'd first thought.

"Fenrir!" she shouted as the troll ran toward the wall.

It slammed its back – with Fenrir still attached – against the stone once, twice, three times. The blows were violent enough that the troll was finally able to seize the stunned wolf and hurl him across the corridor.

The troll locked crimson eyes on her and stalked across the tunnel. She fought every impulse inside her that told her to run and waited for it to come. One taloned hand wrapped around her throat and picked her up. It squeezed, pressing her face into its rancid fur. The smell of old blood, death, mold and dirt invaded her nostrils. Pulling her close, almost nose to nose, the troll roared in fury.

Cecilia wrapped her legs around its waist to take the pressure off her throat. Drawing her sword from her belt, she jammed the blade into its ear, no longer caring if she spilled its blood. Its roar changed to one of agony.

The troll released her throat and raised both hands to its head, stumbling backward to get away from her. Finally, Tin buried his axe halfway through its throat and it fell to the stony floor, dead.

The air hung heavy with the scent of blood, burnt fur and troll. Cecilia rose to her feet and, despite the gore on its blade, she slid her sword back into the sheath, which, thankfully, was lined with fur to wipe the weapon clean. She staggered to the edge of the tunnel and dropped onto a boulder. Her shoulders throbbed in time with the rhythm of her heart. Blood still ran from her wounds.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fenrir stagger to his feet. Relief eased the tightness in her chest as the wolf nuzzled her hand and she scratched behind his ears.

"Be still, Raven of Asgard. The wolf-king and I will keep you up," Tin said grimly. Cecilia wanted to protest that she was perfectly capable of keeping herself up, and was Fenrir really all right?

The cavern was swimming in front of her eyes, and the floor kept bucking and lurching beneath her feet. She buried her fingers in Fenrir's ruff and followed where he and Tin led.

**~o~**

Loki's eyes fluttered open as the mind meld finally contented itself to let go of him. Beads of sweat slid slowly down his face as he sighed breathlessly, the sound arising half from exhaustion and half from contentment at having performed a feat of such daring. Wiping his face, he tried to eliminate Raven's secret sufferings which floated before his eyes. He levered himself up on his elbows and brought his hands to his shoulders feeling the pain of Raven's wounds as if they were his own. A fearful shudder convulsed him.

Chilled by an icy breath that made his hair stand on end; he experienced the strangest feeling of loss as the mortal's mind eagerly retreated from his.

In anguish, he groaned, fighting the nausea that swept over his body in waves.

For a moment, he'd forgotten where he was. Gradually, his cognizance reawakened and slowly adjusted to the chamber. Shaking away her lingering feelings of panic, he looked out the window of his private library, seeing that it was well after dark. He craned his head up and his eyes instinctively flew open again, exposing a fleeting blur until they finally focused on the ghostly shapes of the Nine Realms displayed within the cosmic tree of Yggdrasil as it glimmered high above the warm fire flickering beside him.

Loki leaned back into his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, and sighed deeply. He'd paid visits to the lands of Midgard for well over a thousand years, had a vast wealth of knowledge, yet knew nothing of the human mind. Perhaps Raven wasn't human at all, but something more. He didn't know what answers the realms of Yggdrasil held for her, and mayhap she was better off not knowing. What's more, the barrier in Raven's psyche had been reinforced, so controlling her would be difficult at best. And he didn't want control; he wanted her to be willing.

Those dark shadows, the one tainting him from birth, the terrible legacy handed down from his father scarred his very soul. The light shining so bright in her should have diminished; she should have shunned him, yet she faced him, and faced her own fears. He scrutinized every insecurity, and at that moment, she was holding herself together for him, because he needed and she provided.

Before entering Raven's mind, he'd begun delving into the most ancient histories that stood on his shelves, dating back to an age before his own. Some told of the kingdoms of the old world Vanaheim, others of magic and sorcery in the World of Illusions, and at last, he read of seas and enormous lakes spanning impossible distances, with yet more kingdoms on the far side. It was staggering. If the texts were to be believed, the realm of the Vanir was bigger than he had ever imagined.

Loki rose from his chair to scan the bookshelf behind him, actively looking for something. "No. No," he murmured as he scanned the top shelf. "No." He ran his left hand lightly across the book spines until he snatched a small grey manuscript from its home. He flipped through the front of the book as he had done on many occasions.

With eyes fixed intensely on the pages, he recited without looking up, "Into the threads of time, I cast my thoughts, to catch a glimpse of what will be. O Gods of Asgard, bring to my mind. The lovely gift of prophecy…" He paused, groaning in frustration. "By the Nines, I've amassed a fine collection of fallacies!" Loki scanned a few more pages, and then sighing heavily, he flipped the book shut more loudly than he intended, and returned to his chair.

He rubbed his eyes and bit his bottom lip; silence remained and the disturbed dust began to settle once more. The God of Mischief was tempted to take his leave when he thought to page through the open book he had nearly collapsed upon earlier. To his surprise, he found a passage on ritual magic. As his eyes scanned the page, they widened. There, plain as could be, was one of the numerous methods of controlling emotions, written by the old branch of Vanir gods.

Though written in an incomprehensible primordial language, the words were effortlessly translated in Loki's mind, as if the language were plain to understand. "Controlled emotional effort in the ritual proves to the intuitive mind that you are sincere in your desires…" Loki read aloud, flipping a few more pages. "Insistence on magical power numbers of three, five, seven and nine. Repetition."

"Repetition," Loki repeated in a whisper, trying the word on for size.

He took out a quill and a piece of parchment and began copying the text.

**~o~**

There were long stretches of their descent to the Great Hall that Cecilia could not later remember. She recalled being left against a wall like a rag doll while Tin and Fenrir butchered three trolls who would not even turn from their work to defend themselves. She remembered Tin saying dryly as he dragged her to her feet one-handed, "And now, perhaps, the mountain will not fall down on our heads before we have a chance at a bath, Mage!"

Cecilia remembered them coming to a room – for Tin was taking them a different way and she wondered why, but couldn't find her tongue to ask – in which six stunted trolls lay dead, each with their fingers tightly clasped around the hilt of the knife protruding from their bellies.

Finally, she found her voice and asked softly, "What happened here?"

"These were her males. They lived only to breed with her and as she died, so died they also," Tin answered.

"These are male trolls?" Cecilia asked, still dizzy and weak.

Tin huffed impatiently. "And what else would they be?"

If Cecilia answered him, she did not remember, for her wits wandered again, and the next thing she heard clearly was Tin saying, "Duck. _Duck_, Raven of Asgard. Bend your head!" She realized Fenrir was trying to urge her through another mouse-hole in the stone.

"I'm not a mouse," she said muzzily.

"Of course you're not," Tin replied. "Your brain has been rattled. You will be well with rest."

"We cannot rest here. Fenrir!" she called, and Fenrir's head appeared through the hole; he leaned forward and took Cecilia's forearm very gently between his jaws and began tugging.

The hole was full of light, and she tried to get a hand up to protect her eyes while Tin's voice hummed and chimed around her. Without Fenrir to steady her, she could no longer tell where the floor was. Cecilia knew for a moment that she was falling and there was nothing she could do about it.

_Sorry, Tin_, was the last coherent thought she had for some time.

When Cecilia roused, it was with a much clearer head. She found herself lying upon Fenrir's back, the heat of his body seeping into the cold of hers. As they made their way down another twisting tunnel, she desperately tried to regain her energy. Her legs felt heavy and her arms still leaden. Slowly, she attempted to tip her head up, but it fell back down against Fenrir's shoulders, too heavy for her to hold up on her own. Running her fingers through Fenrir's ruff, she called out, "Tin!"

"Raven of Asgard, there truly are many wonders in the world," Tin said, and the gravity of his voice was belied by the wicked twinkle in his eyes. With a strong hand, Tin pulled her up and off Fenrir's back and situated her onto her feet.

"Have I been gone?" Cecilia said to Tin, frowning, trying to piece her memories together in a way that would make sense. "You said my brain was rattled."

"It was! Thought you might be left wit-addled," Tin replied, smiling at her brilliantly. "But you are lucky." He cocked his head, regarding her with small bright eyes as he offered her his arm, which she accepted appreciatively. "Your position," he continued, cocking his head the other way, "is now more favorable for gaining the reverence of the House of Sindri."

"Why?" she asked him, slowly regaining her stride.

"You must understand, we are a cautious people, of oaths and bargains. And thus we are very careful to deliver what we promise. But with your magic that can kill trolls, you can actually bring them good."

Cecilia sighed doubtfully, passing a hand over her wounds, which were beginning to clot. _Magic._ It was hardly that. "You know very well that I didn't kill that troll; you did."

"Aye, but it would have taken me months, if not years, to find the opportunity to battle a troll that size. Ori would have laughed himself sick watching me try." Tin placed his large hand on her forearm. "So you did more than you swore to do. Delivering more than one has promised is considered the mark of bravery, and it is not treated lightly."

They heard singing far off, but all sounds abruptly stopped when they reached an intersection of tunnels.

Fenrir felt that were was no need for caution. He trotted forward boldly, nails clicking on the hewn stone underfoot, stopping every dozen yards to crane back over his shoulder and see what might be taking Cecilia and Tin so long.

Cecilia wished she were better reassured by Fenrir's lack of caution, but she followed with that trust she had for him and eventually they came to a tunnel that was greater than the first, where she could stand upright. Her thighs, calves and lower back protested when she straightened, to the point where she thought she might almost rather have stayed cramped.

The tunnel was nothing like the rough-hewn one that led to the trellwarren; it was spacious, wide enough for five dwarves or three men abreast, and tallow lanterns flickered every few hundred feet, casting warm yellow pools of light through panes that looks like smoke-ambered crystal.

By the nearest lantern, Cecilia could make out the fine fluted patterns that curled along the walls of the hall. Hall, because she could not honestly call it a tunnel. Not after the trellwarren.

"Follow me," Tin said, the harmonics of his voice whistled like the winds that seared through the hall. He strode past as if he no longer needed to keep Cecilia under watch.

That alone would have warned Cecilia that her behavior would be measured. The high queer resonance of the dwarves' voices rang out around corners and echoed from place to place, and Cecilia could no more say from where they spoke than she could say how many there were. She laid a hand on Fenrir's shoulder, and as he seemed inclined to follow Tin, so she followed him.

Finally, she could tell that the voices – or some of them, at least – came from ahead. There was more light there too, pools of it, and it occurred to her that the air she breathed was cool and fresh, and the fires burned clear.

"Hold your spears," Tin said and stepped forward through a narrow place in the hall. "I am accompanied."

Torches around the wall lighted the huge chamber and the illumination was probably considered bright by dwarf standards, but Cecilia still had trouble capturing all the details of the room. Fenrir was untroubled, and so Cecilia continued on boldly.

Around the edges of the torch-lit room were benches hewn out of stone. Back against the far wall were two magnificent gold thrones, both occupied by dwarves. Dwarves in chain mail armor guarded the two entrances to the chamber.

"I will speak on your behalf," Tin said in a whisper, shaking his head. "All from the same realm, yet half the time they can't even remember not to call us beasts."

An elderly dwarf came over to Tin and greeted him. "I am Doryelgar, advisor to the King Hreidmar. And you," he regarded Tin with speculation, "are far from your trellwarren. What is your purpose here?"

"Doryelgar, I am called Tin, of the smith's guild and the Iron Kinship. This is Raven of Asgard. She is man," greeted Tin. "We are honored to be welcomed into the Great Hall of Nidavellir."

Cecilia was unsure whether to bow or offer her hand. She felt inadequate in her knowledge of dwarfish ways and promised herself that would expand the horizons of her studies. "Doryelgar, I'm pleased to meet a friend of Asgard and hope that I'm worthy of such welcome to Nidavellir."

"You are wounded," Doryelgar said, narrowing his red eyes into slits.

"Yes, but I am sound," Cecilia insisted, clearing her throat before offering her explanation. "Trolls."

The dwarf's gruff face broke into an imitation of a smile – or perhaps that was what a smiling dwarf looked like, she thought. "Raven of Asgard, the All-Father speaks highly of you." The dwarf king's advisor ushered her forward. "Come, come, we've been expecting you. I shall introduce you to King Hreidmar and Queen Gilas. It is customary for visitors to bow to our royalty," he added in a low whisper.

Cecilia nodded her thanks to Tin and was grateful for Doryelgar's hint at protocol.

When she bowed to the royal couple she was close enough to see the two figures. King Hreidmar's appearance was similar to Tin, but he possessed coal-colored skin. The Queen had quite a different look. She was a remarkable beauty, wearing a long flowing, pale, blue dress. She chatted softly with her husband, smiling and listening carefully to whatever it was he said as she glowed like a banked ember. Cecilia ventured the Queen was even more beautiful than Belle Lios-Alf.

"Asgardian!" The chamber fell silent as each subject turned their attention to her. Finally, King Hreidmar broke the silence with a look of deep satisfaction. "I see your king has resolved to pay the price, and you shall be very valuable, indeed."

**~o~**


	10. Chapter 10 - The House of Sindri

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim in the Marvel franchise. However the original plots are owned by me.

The ending of this chapter contains mature content, if you're uncomfortable reading it. Please feel free to skip over it.

Enjoy!

* * *

_**Chapter 10 – The House of Sindri**_

For a lingering moment, Cecilia and King Hreidmar's eyes were locked in a fearsome tug of wills, the outcome of which could hardly have been in doubt; yet during that brief introduction, a hundred thoughts swirled through Cecilia's brain, the most prominent being a sense of self-preservation at having now being unmasked as a "valuable" symbol of Asgard.

And to have been unmasked before a huge assembly of courtiers, all of them standing quietly, all facing toward her, only increased her sense of anxiety. Without a moment's hesitation, Doryelgar steered Cecilia directly into the crowd, which jumped and jostled aside for them; whereupon they quickly found themselves out in the vast middle of the Great Hall.

To their left was a group of musicians, plying their divers instruments in a lively concert; to their right, a tall, white-hot fire flickered, wavering orange and yellow hues along the stone walls. But in the distance, at the farthest end of the hall, was an imposing and most majestic sight to behold: for there, Cecilia saw, seated at an enormous table where they were finishing off a large supper, the most immediate members of the dwarf-king's royal family. And they were flanked by a bustling squadron of footmen, butlers, and serving men.

Two young dwarves were devouring a massive plateful of food, eating heartily and well on their way to becoming the bulging heaps that she'd come to know from her storybooks. Beside them, sat an elderly dwarf, who was vigorously cleaning underneath his fingernails with a meat knife, while his lovely consort did not appear to be eating, or in fact, doing anything more than sulking to herself.

From where Cecilia was standing, her head still lowered, she caught now, in the shadows behind the figure of the queen, a glimpse of one of the Queen's dwarf-pets, his pudgy hand across his mouth, laughing silently at her discomfort. It seemed like a cruel creature.

"My lord," Doryelgar began, "will you be gracious enough to hear of this matter?"

One of the young dwarves at the table belched. Cecilia tried to hide her repulsion.

"Pray speak," said the king, with a sweep of his large, wing-like hand.

"King Hreidmar," Cecilia said, "shall I speak before this company? It is a matter which–"

Whereat the dwarf king signaled almost imperceptibly to a chamberlain, who himself signaled almost imperceptibly to all the rest of the room; and she saw the servants quickly withdraw from the hall. Instantly the music ceased and she heard the crowds behind her, along with the musicians, recede. The tall double doors thundered shut behind them, and even Tin retreated to the shadows of the far corners of the hall.

"Now, Asgardian?" Hreidmar said with a smile.

"Do pray speak, young one," said Queen Gilas in a most quizzical tone. "We are all indeed itching to hear what fresh gossip you bring us from your realm."

There was a pause.

"How come she doesn't say anything?" asked one of the gluttonous young dwarves, his eyelids drooping.

Everyone waited.

"Father," the young dwarf said with a measure of irritation. "This foolish beast squanders our time."

"Perhaps she is dumb!" yelled an elder dwarf at the royal table.

With that, the royal family whooped and began slapping their hands on the table. And in the increasing merriment of that moment, the queen's pet, peering out again from behind the queen's chair, now allowed himself to burst into quite vocal and open mirth.

"Hold," said the dwarf-king and instantly calm and order were restored to the room. "Asgardian," Hreidmar continued in a most quiet, soothing tone. "I bid you, speak; you need not fear."

Compared to Tin's harmonics, Hreidmar's voice was like that of a cello, and so it was at that moment; and the music which it produced was celestial, for it sounded to her abused ears like nothing so much as the voice of a gentle father addressing and encouraging his daughter.

Cecilia found then that she was indeed able to speak and address the king in return. "Your most gracious Majesty; I have the honor of representing Asgard here in your great realm," she began, reciting the words Loki imparted to her earlier. "But my king wishes to ensure my safety during my apprenticeship in the House of Sindri."

Hreidmar narrowed his eyes, accentuating his bushy eyebrows all the more, and gradually sank back into his chair. "Ah! So you want something!" the dwarf king's deduction made him grin. "You've come to barter after all. I would pay a good price for your wolf. We won't call it servitude if it offends you. A gift, let's say."

"Let me say it clearly. Fenrir is not for sale or gift, and if anyone dares touch him they will be dead before they hit the ground." Cecilia looked right at Hreidmar. "That means you. Do not put the All-Father to the test."

The dwarf-king clapped with pleasure. "And I would also pay to see such a battle, if I had any gold left." His hands dropped back down to his lap. "I have none, you see," he admitted bitterly. "The Dark Elves pilfered it all, but my army will get back what is mine. I, Hreidmar, King of the Dwarves of Nidavellir, swear on it. You may convey that sentiment to your All-Father."

Cecilia shook her head and began to recite Loki's terms once more. "No, good King, I can't do that. My business is now here in Nidavellir. I'm here to–"

"Stop," bade Hreidmar. "Do you truly think I am concerned with why you are here?" he spat. "Did your All-Mighty, All-Knowing King tell you I would be happy to receive you just because you are from Asgard? I wipe my arse with your courts and courtesies, girl. The last travelers who came here from your realm wound up with their organs on my dinner plate. You pray to your Æsir that I don't march my legion across the Barren Plains to conquer them next."

Hreidmar grimaced with laughter. The royal family hollered from behind the throne, while one of the young dwarves simply sat picking his nose, obviously engrossed in his own ruminations.

Cecilia could feel Fenrir nuzzling beside her. She placed a hand on his broad back, running idle fingers through his fur. For a moment, she had the urge to leave that wretched place. She looked over her shoulder at Tin, who obediently stared at his feet. The long braids of his beard and the gem-studded ties settled down his broad chest.

Finding little comfort in her new acquaintance, Cecilia looked back toward the throne and gathered her nerve. Fenrir stood his ground beside her, without looking down. She reminded herself that she was on a mission, and as unwise as it seemed, she was going to speak her piece. Slowly, but timidly, she slipped her hand into an inside pocket of her black, leather vest. She fumbled with the ties, managing to pull free a pouch made of rich otter skin. She tossed it to Hreidmar's feet. He made no move to catch it.

There was silence while the dwarves' greedy eyes looked on as several small pieces of mithril rolled out of the pouch's small opening.

"As I've said, my king wishes to ensure my safety," Cecilia explained with poise. "If you oblige, there will be much, much more."

Hreidmar blinked his bloodshot eyes, pretending to give weight to her words, and then shook with laughter – uncontrollable laughter that made him knock over his goblet and cry real tears. His jolliness spread like a contagion, first to Queen Gilas and then to the royal family and their filthy children.

"You came all this way to ask me for safety?" Hreidmar chortled. "I must refuse, for I know not how to ensure your well-being. Did your king truly not imagine that a mission set out so far would run such risks? Heed me; it is an imprudent request." He choked on his laughter, then spat a wad of mucus toward the Queen's pet.

The drawf-king rose to his feet and slowly stepped away from his throne to face Cecilia. "Help me understand this," he said. "When did Asgard decide they were so much better than the rest of us? You do not come and ask for favors. I am a King!" He placed his large palm on his chest. "You have no idea of the sweat, blood and tears that have been shed to build these hallowed halls, for which our very walls were bathed in crimson with the blood of those who have had to lay down their lives to wrest from the mountain the secrets of its whims and power, and make it the great realm that it is today!"

King Hredimar seized Cecilia's hands and turned her palms facing up for her to see. "You will _earn_ your hands." He went on. "And your hands will not come willingly. Think of the rivers of blood shed by the martyrs of old as they faced the angry orcs, the pillory, the garotte or the stretchers and died for a cause and a principle. They left us with a heritage of conviction and hope that is not to be measured in silver or gold. Only then, will you truly learn our trade."

Cecilia nodded, understanding. "You see things very clearly, King Hreidmar," she said. "I'm a stranger here and I know nothing about your lore or trade. But I will learn."

"Let me tell you plainly – I don't like deception. The only reason you still live is because you faced a troll and survived. That intrigues me," Hreidmar revealed. "You want to enter into the House of Sindri, yet you are afraid. Perhaps rightfully so. I will tell you this truth, Asgardian; you are safe in my realm, much safer than you will be once you leave. You are under my protection here. All of you."

Cecilia had no choice but to believe him. "All right," she agreed.

"Shall I provide escort to the House of Sindri, my lord?" Doryelgar said, moving forward to place a hand on Cecilia's forearm.

"Allow me." Hreidmar stated, preceding Cecilia by several paces. Even with his short legs; she was nearly running to keep up with the king's purposeful strides. By her side, Fenrir trotted along courteously, moving with the grace of a cat – a cat the size of a pony.

"The King!" shouted the guards in the adjoining second antechamber, as both doors swung open wide. Hreidmar proceeded across the room, not acknowledging the bows and curtsies of the servants, who were awaiting further instructions there, nor heeding their murmurs of "Your Majesty" and "Your Grace."

They swept through the length of the west wing of the palace, past scattered groups of courtiers, all of whom bowed, curtsied and murmured, "Your Majesty". From there they marched to the northern wing, where doors flew open as though by themselves, and through a series of several more chambers; but Hreidmar and Fenrir were in no mood to tarry. Cecilia was growing out of breath as the king led her on a brisk chase. Behind her, Doryelgar and Tin were engaged in a whispered discussion as they waddled – yes, waddled was the right word – not too far behind. Yet Cecilia kept up as best she could, even breaking out into a light sweat.

Presently – bolting past a throng of dwarves in armor, who snapped to most respectful attention and lustily cried out, "Your Majesty!" – they reached a dark chamber, which, to Cecilia's horror, it seemed to be Hreidmar's destination.

When they entered, everything was silent and empty: no one was present and the room had been stripped entirely bare. Not only was the room unoccupied, but it was cold.

Looking back at Cecilia with a baleful expression in his eyes, Hreidmar gave a casual flick of his head toward a golden, shimmering door at the other end of the chamber.

Fenrir leaned heavily against Cecilia's hip, coyly making eyes at her. She was grateful for his warmth, though she wasn't shivering because of the biting cold, or the crunch of mud freezing under her boots. Rather, it was due to a sudden wave of trepidation and fear.

Heeding Hreidmar's suggestion, Cecilia took a tentative step toward the door, and looked back at Tin who was leaning on his spear.

"Go, Raven of Asgard." Tin smiled, and she recognized the copper and silver tracery that inlaid the dwarf's teeth. "I will be along."

Cecilia nodded and grabbed hold of Fenrir's ruff as they went to the door. She stood with one hand on its golden surface, the other grasping the stony frame as if the door were a hole she was trying not to fall though. She looked around once more. "And you'll guarantee my safety?"

"For as long as you are here," agreed the king. "Outside, I guarantee nothing."

She took a deep breath, stepped across the threshold, and closed the door carefully behind her and Fenrir.

As they entered the cave, they were met by a young, plainly dressed dwarf with stunning steel-blue eyes that glowed in the dark. Before she could say a word, it quickly handed Cecilia a scroll and said, "I bring you word from Brokk and Eiti."

The dwarf beckoned them farther inside. Cecilia and Fenrir followed at a distance until they passed through a mouse hole which opened to a small room. The dwarf got busy there, starting a fire in the hearth, and lighting lanterns. Cecilia found a flat boulder and sat, straightening out the scroll to reveal a document written in a strange language.

The wolf went over to her, laid his chin on her knee and stared at her with a completely lovelorn expression. Cecilia reached over and started stroking his shiny black fur, all while gazing at the scroll.

"I can't read this," she said to the dwarf.

"Pity. For those are your tasks," it explained, shrugging. "You will learn."

Cecilia looked at Fenrir and then at the dwarf.

"What's your name?" Cecilia asked curiously.

The dwarf looked at her, stood tall and said, "My name is Dvalin, son of Ivaldi, and brother to Brokk and Eiti Sindri."

Not clear on how to respond to such an introduction, Cecilia was relieved when Dvalin demanded her attention once more.

"You will man the bellows and cut charcoal for the forge." Davlin paused for several moments in reflection and continued, "And when you're finished, you will be at our elbows during all other work, shadowing our every move. We have much to teach, you have much to learn. We have a commitment to Asgard."

The dwarf's eyes turned from light blue to that of angry steel. "We start tomorrow," Dvalin said.

"Tomorrow. Thank you, Dvalin," Cecilia replied with a nod as the dwarf withdrew from the hole.

When Cecilia rose from the boulder, Fenrir stepped beside her heels. Very well-trained, and to be honest, just the kind of company she needed after the strange ending of her day. She strode over to the corner of the cave and curled up beside a smooth wall. Fenrir snorted, a gust of air rushing past her face. Cecilia touched the wolf's muzzle gently, brushing the coarse fur, rubbing its ears.

_What a beautiful creature_, she thought, rubbing his head. She loved how completely honest and simple the animal's affection was.

Settling in, Fenrir stuck his nose by her ear and licked her once before plopping his belly close to her side. Cecilia smiled and draped an arm over him.

Sometime during the night when she rolled over, the wolf was gone. How poetic, she'd be abandoned by yet another male. "Day one," she sighed and slipped back into her dreams.

**~o~**

The Ambassador's Banquet to honor Asgard was a tribute of ancient tradition, demonstrating the strength of the Æsir and the weaknesses of all those beneath their reign. Such a plea of high antiquity and ritual had long been the bulwark of error. It cleaved to its beloved mother, tradition, hoary tradition, with an affection that only increased as she became old and feeble. Errorists of all the realms were exceedingly devout and dutiful.

_And insufferably dull_, Loki thought.

Beneath his veil of the False Odin, The God of Mischief grew restless; his sharp, green eyes surveyed the fine banquet table filled with the most delicious fare, served on the realm's finest golden tableware. The mind-numbing conversation between men and women of the stricter sects formed the ebb and flow of the life they led day to day. While some slowly tore at their victuals with their fingers, others ate with astonishing rapacity. Without minding any business or any other pleasure, the ambassadors ate and drank themselves into the blissful oblivion of merriment.

As a learned historian, Loki believed that to avoid being imposed upon, he would treat tradition as he would a notorious and known liar, to whom he would give no credit, to unless what it said could be confirmed by someone of undoubted veracity. Though the greatest men have, out of a pious credulity, suffered themselves to be imposed upon by a liar such as he.

And the mischief within him inspired the god to impose himself upon others.

From a distance, Loki could only surmise the pain Ambassador Belle Lios-Alf must be enduring from the fake smile she had pasted on her face all evening. Even he could not stomach hearing the pompous Vanir by her side boast of his accomplishments in Vanaheim, and drawl on about the abundance of talent in their realm.

She sipped the last of her ale as one of the servants removed the remains of their meal. "It was delicious, Emily." Her voice rang with emotion and she had a dreamy moonlit yearning on her face. An irresistible innocence that called to him. An innocence he should leave untouched. As Belle glanced at Emily, Loki noticed the elf frown.

Was that pity in the servant girl's eyes? _Fascinating_. Perhaps, the maid thought her political aspirations were unworthy.

Belle swept her lashes down to cover her displeasure.

Amused by her distress, Loki continued to watch her from afar, observing while in the realm of invisibility. His gaze first fell on her lips, and traveled down to her bosom which rose and fell to its own frantic beat, lush and inviting in the candlelight. He could easily satisfy all of her innocent curiosities. Certainly it would be far more pleasurable than what her betrothed might ever dream of offering.

Then again, her appearance could have been a deliberate ruse. Belle had an underlying layer of confidence that contradicted her virginal demeanor.

Almost as if she felt his scrutiny, Belle's eyes lifted and locked with his, unknowingly surrendering and granting Loki access to her mind.

Wickedly, he smiled. The prospect of eliciting the much-needed excitement was hard to refuse.

Perhaps he would be courteous and allow her just _one_ experience.

As Loki reeled her deep into his trance, Belle watched as the great hall transformed into a chamber of dark shadows before her eyes. Belle's body, mind and spirit were captivated. The tension eased from her shoulders – his ploy appeared to have worked.

Belle had felt physical lust. The knowledge quaked through him, realigning his opinions and completing her metamorphosis into a flesh-and-blood woman. While he had mocked her for her political alignments, pitied her as a passionless virago; she had expressed the same longings hidden beneath her beautiful façade – much as he had concealed his darkness behind the mask of Odin. They were alike, both of them, reluctant to reveal themselves to the world.

Unknowingly, Belle had revealed herself to him, and the insight into her vulnerability ignited his desire.

From behind, Loki knotted a silk scarf over her eyes and began undressing her with slow, deliberate care; the look on his face somber and absorbed. It was almost as though he was performing a ritual, an act of worship rehearsed in his mind a thousand times. The high white stretch of the bed as he placed her upon it and stood staring down at her pink and ivory nakedness had the feel of some religious altar of Midgard. Divesting himself of his attire and joining her upon it, he was both neophyte and high priest.

The shadows danced over Belle's flesh, grazing over the golden glow of her hair, gilding the curves of her body, leaving the hollows in secret obscurity.

Gently, Loki stretched out his hands to touch her; he planned to take from her with little thought of giving in return. It made no difference what she wanted. As his body covered hers, he felt her receding, becoming lost in him, and then she took a swift, inward plunging of his ardor. When at last he twined his fingers in her hair and drew her head back for his kiss, she was glowing in warmth and something more, a kindling flame of passion.

And though the elf allowed him the free use of her body, though she gave him her smiles and moans, Loki could still feel her instant fear as he lay beside her. He hadn't threatened her, and yet, she still cravedit – from him.

She _hungered_ for it.

Before Belle could draw in her breath to speak, Loki's mouth came down on hers, forcing her lips apart, moving, and searching. His tongue touched hers with the feel of fire, and she stiffened in resistance to the spreading pleasure that moved over her. Loki took notice; his touch wandering to the blue-veined fullness of her breast that trembled with the beating of her heart.

Belle turned her head, dragging her lips away to breathe in unconscious entreaty.

Loki shook his head, brushing his lips across the curve of her cheek below her ear. "Be still," he whispered, gathering her close once more, the muscles in his arms rigid with his need.

With her hands clenched into fists, she lay as he explored the curves and hollows of her body with infinite care, enjoying the silken texture of her skin, awakening a sweet ache in her loins that grew, demanding assuagement. His mouth ravished her as his caresses grew bolder; more consummate in their understanding of what would give her uncontrollable pleasure.

What else would she allow him do?

Loki savored her mouth with hard hunger, moving his hands over her back to her hips, pressing her close against his body.

Tie her down?

Belle gasped in the shock of awaked excitement. With a low sound deep in her throat, she moved her head from side to side. She reached out her hand to push him from her but instead clasped his shoulder, sliding her palm along his corded muscles.

Lash her to ecstasy?

Loki took instant advantage of her weakness. His knee slid between her thighs as his arms tightened. They came together with clinging mouths and twisting, arching bodies, seeking mindlessly for the opiate of passion, the lulling peace of sleep-inducing exhaustion.

_Belle_?

Prompted by a gentle squeeze of her fingers, Belle gasped as her mind reluctantly returned to the monotony of the banquet. Her chest tightened as Loki's mind finally broke away from hers.

Lady Hadda gently released Belle's hand. "Belle? Belle, my dear?" she said with grave concern in her eyes. The table's spirited conversation had died down considerably during her shadow fantasy. "Are you ill? You look a bit flushed. I heard there was a dreadful attack near your bedchamber last night. I was frightened for you."

Belle paused, straightening her dress. "Yes, I am fine," she managed, though her mind was still reeling. She bit her lip; her cheeks burned in embarrassment.

Loki smiled wickedly beneath his mask, taking pleasure in his little game.

Belle naïvely trusted him enough to permit access into her mind – a place where he could even choose to kill her, at her most vulnerable – lying, face down, on top of the bed – and it would satisfy his carnal lust, as well as the murderous streak that smoldered within him, every now and then.

The mischief made him do it, he would argue.

"My lady's maid has gone missing," Belle went on, swallowing some ale.

The ambassadors let out a collective gasp that echoed through the hall.

Loki held up a hand, commanding the ambassadors to quell their speculative mutterings. "I assure you, Ambassadors, that we are doing all we can to find Belle's maid–"

"Cecilia," Belle said, interrupting the All-Father. "Her name is Cecilia."

Loki nodded graciously. "Cecilia," he repeated with a wide grin, considering the Midgardian name to be quite charming. "Do not concern yourself with such trivialities, Ambassador Lios-Alf. Surely your future king could bring your mind at ease."

Belle's betrothed cleared his throat as he pushed back his chair. In a fluid and graceful gesture, he pulled out Belle's seat as well and offered her his arm. Her eyes quickly filled with disgust as the Vanir touched her with his slightly sweaty palm. She disliked his touch on her skin. Smiling, she managed to hide her distaste.

"Tend to the lady and your respective realms, we have much to discuss of Vanaheim on the morrow," Loki said to the Vanir as he and the beautiful elf bowed and retired for the evening.

For a moment, he pitied her. The knowledge that she would never know that delight again, that such pleasure was one she must always deny herself now and forever more. Loki held a speculative finger to his lips and wondered how many times Belle would eagerly return to that fantasy and bask in the animal heat of the shadows.

The mischief would make her do it, time and time again.

**~o~**

**Author's Note**: The otter-skin pouch given to Hreidmar by Cecilia in this chapter was a respectful nod to Norse Mythology. According to the Prose Edda, Hreidmar had a son named Ótr, who could change into any form, and used to spend his days in the shape of an otter, greedily eating fish. Ótr was slain accidentally by Loki, who wanted to keep his pelt. Hreidmar demanded a large sum to recompense for Ótr's death, namely to fill Ótr's skin with yellow gold, and to then cover it entirely with red gold.


End file.
